


A Host of Many Colours

by Metallic_Sweet



Series: Wear Your Colours [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Class Issues, Courtly Love, Cultural Differences, Espionage, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Golden Deer Route, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Moral Dilemmas, Past Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra, Power Dynamics, Supernatural Elements, Survivor Guilt, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:48:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188777
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Metallic_Sweet/pseuds/Metallic_Sweet
Summary: Ferdinand collects information regarding Those Who Slither in the Dark.Or, some personal consequences to uniting Fódlan inWear Your Colours.





	1. Chapter 1

**1168, Lone Moon**

The apple blossoms have come early. 

Ferdinand is thrilled. The scent of the blossoms is sweet and bright, colouring the dawning of his sixth year. His mother lets him ride in front of her as she does her rounds through the orchards. Her pegasus, Beatrice, tolerates Ferdinand, who thinks he is still young enough that the animal’s natural dislike for males is not too strong. He adores riding up in the sky with Mother and Beatrice, surrounded by the fragrant breeze. 

“Ferdinand,” his mother murmurs as he leans forward to peer down at the earth with its pink, green, and brown colours, “careful there.”

“Yes, Mama,” he chirps, righting himself slightly and securing his hold in Beatrice’s mane.

His mother smiles. Soft in a way that is all Ferdinand’s own. It is only when they fly together, far beyond his father’s ears and eyes, that Ferdinand may call her such an endearment. She is an Este by birth, a Bergliez branch house once known for its pegasus riders. The family has since fallen on hard times and deprived financial support from House Bergliez. Her marriage into House Aegir was expedient more than anything else, following the Church intervention that prevented the original proposal between the former Duke Aegir and Count Varley. 

Ferdinand understands the circumstances well. It will be many years before he understands that he understood it better than a six-year-old should. 

Now, he simply thrills to be flying with his mother. Up in the sky, she threads her fingers through Ferdinand’s hair. She tucks her strong javelin arm around his waist and points. Up and to the north east. Ferdinand turns his head and raises his hand to shield his eyes from the sun’s glare, searching the horizon.

“Far that way,” his mother whispers, and he drops his hands to tuck around her forearm; lifts his chin to look up into her dark red gaze, “is Almyra. It is a great kingdom of Horse and Wyvern Riders. Last night, at the hour of your birth, I dreamed of a one-eyed Almyran rider with gold in his hair.”

“Ooh,” Ferdinand breathed, his mother tilting her head so he could whisper and be heard, “was it a fae dream?” 

His mother nods. She leans further down. Presses her lips to his brow. 

“I see you grown,” she whispers, so very low that the light breeze almost carries it away; Ferdinand cranes his neck so she may speak against his ear. “You are clad in battle armour. You are strong and noble and good. You welcome the rider alongside allies wearing many colours.” 

Ferdinand is still. Many years later, he will remember how his skin prickled with goosebumps even though the weather was mild and sun high. How his mother breathed out against his skin. How she kissed his cheek and tightened her hold around his waist. 

The scent of apple blossoms carried on the breeze. 

“This is how you go to war.” 

**1185, Verdant Rain Moon**

Three months on from the war, Ferdinand wakes up. 

He stares at the ceiling of his room. It is sunrise, and the summer weather is already warming. The old arrow wound on the lower right side of his chest aches. Outside, a cow bellows, kicking up a fuss about milking.

He has overslept.

Ferdinand rolls over. Left side. He drags himself from the bed, tugging his house coat from the floor to pull around his shoulders. He rubs his left hand awkwardly over his aching right side as he shuffles into his house shoes. A little unsteady, he moves through the connecting door to the conservatory, past the main windows, and through the servants door. He descends the stairs, fumbling his coat to sit better on his shoulders and pressing his right hand over his mouth. Swallows his yawn.

He should have gotten up at least an hour ago, but no use wasting anymore time being frustrated.

He comes out in the main kitchen, which is already in its organized chaos. A couple of the apprentices turn to look at him, which alerts the undercook, Marcelo, who frowns at Ferdinand.

“You overslept,” Marcelo scowls, jabbing his forefinger at a wholemeal biscuit and covered mug behind the servant bread basket.

“Yeah,” Ferdinand sighs. “Thank you.”

He gulps down the room temperature black tea, leaving a finger’s width depth to moisten the biscuit. More apprentices filter around him, shoving bread crusts into their mouths before hurrying to work. They look over Ferdinand curiously in his house coat and undone hair. It is less his presence that interests them and more his slovenliness. 

Ferdinand finishes his breakfast and swipes a bread crust on his way back into the servants passage. He re-emerges in the conservatory to find Elizabeth and her apprentice, Nancy, in the process of changing the main rug. They blink at him, quite surprised. 

“Good morning, Elizabeth, Nancy,” Ferdinand says, stepping around them and temporarily moved furniture. “Please excuse me, I overslept.”

“Good morning, Ferdinand,” Elizabeth says as Nancy looks down at her end of the carpet, clearly uncertain as to how to react. “Did you get your breakfast?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says as he opens the connecting door, “please tell Marcelo and Elma thank you for me—I wasn’t awake enough to catch them properly.” 

“Of course,” Elizabeth answers with a smile before Ferdinand closes the door. 

He grimaces at himself. Strips off his housecoat. He tosses it over the back of his dressing table’s chair and sets about untying his sleeping clothes, studiously ignoring the mirror for the time being. His old wound aches enough that Ferdinand pauses and moves into the light from his eastern window as he pulls off the last of his sleeping clothes to examine it. He blows out a sigh at the clearly irritated knot of flesh. 

“Damn,” he says aloud because he’s alone and therefore allowed to curse. 

Ferdinand picks his sleeping tunic back up, checking to see if there’s any blood. There is a small discoloured and not entirely dry patch over where he must have scratched himself in his sleep. No wonder everyone was staring at him earlier. He hadn’t tied his housecoat, so the bloodstain would have been obvious. The staff of House Gloucester are all trained, due to the recent war, to be aware of the condition of those around them. 

The House policy for dealing with Ferdinand’s injuries is to directly alert Lorenz. This is probably why Marcelo looked so cross rather than Ferdinand’s lateness. That assumption had been pure projection on Ferdinand’s part. This is probably why Isabella wasn’t already in the conservatory when he came back up. Marcelo likely already intercepted her, which also means Lorenz is probably going to appear sooner rather than later. 

There goes the entire morning. 

Frustrated, Ferdinand throws the tunic over the top of his dressing divide. He steps to sit at his dressing table, glancing at the wash basin which still has yesterday’s water in it. The water is old but fairly clean, since he hadn’t used it to wash his hands and face outside of the morning before. Ferdinand picks up his shaving razor and is in the process of shaving his upper lip when his main door opens. 

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz says apropos of a greeting. 

Ferdinand keeps his eye on his reflection in the water as he finishes his stroke. “Good morning, Lorenz,” he sighs as he wipes the razor and moves onto the left size of his jaw. 

Lorenz doesn’t respond. Ferdinand listens to his footsteps and then the dramatic _thunk_ of his kit on the side table. Ferdinand finishes his left jaw. Wipes the razor. He does the right side of his face, listening to Lorenz fiddling about with vials.

“Lorenz,” Ferdinand starts, wiping his razor as he glances around, “I –” 

“Do no apologise,” Lorenz bites out, a cloth in his left hand and setting down an empty vial on the table. “Let me see.” 

Ferdinand shifts himself and the chair around. Sits up straight. Lorenz scowls at the obvious point of issue. He crosses the room and kneels down, looking over the irritated flesh before applying the soaked patch on the cloth to the worst of it. Ferdinand grits his teeth against the sting. 

“I am –”

“Hush,” Lorenz says. 

It is not angry, just tired. He lifts up the cloth, examining the old wound. It’s still pink, but the concoction has closed up the open flesh. Ferdinand watches Lorenz straighten. Cross back to the kit to deposit the cloth. He picks up an ointment pot and a bandage roll before returning to kneel next to Ferdinand, who lifts his arms to give Lorenz easier access. 

“Auntie and I,” Lorenz says as he applies a small amount of the numbing ointment and then begins to lightly wrap Ferdinand’s waist, “have told you a thousand times: wounds like this sometimes will itch. I’m guessing this happened while you were asleep?”

“Yes,” Ferdinand says, staring at the top of Lorenz’s head. 

“Then it couldn’t be helped,” is the very reasonable response. “It is not as if you are a babe and can be swaddled safely.”

“Swaddled,” Ferdinand says, somewhat dumbly. 

Lorenz hums. He pins the bandage and takes a moment to inspect his handiwork before standing back up. Ferdinand lowers his arms, looking up at Lorenz, who frowns slightly. He clearly wants to say something and, in a rare demonstration of verbal restraint, is thinking it through. 

The hair on Ferdinand’s neck stands up. 

“Lorenz?”

He watches how Lorenz’s lips press together. The movement of his jaw. The long muscles on the right side of his neck. 

On the battlefield, in the court and war rooms: these tells are damning. 

Here:

“Marcelo asked why you favour the servants passages.” 

Ferdinand opens his mouth. Lorenz continues. He is an expert at talking over others. Not to be impolite or even because he likes the sound of his voice. Because it is often more expedient than the alternatives. 

“I told him,” Lorenz says, frowning but not at Ferdinand, “you find them convenient to which he responded that he was glad. I would even say relieved. He had been under the impression it was the way things were done in the Empire.”

He pauses. Ferdinand feels his fingers curling on the side of his dressing table. He doesn’t entirely understand why. The floor feels liable to pitch him off. 

Sometimes the worst part about panic is that Ferdinand understands that it is happening but not why. 

“Have,” Lorenz says, his gaze flickering to Ferdinand’s hand and back to his face, “I been presumptuous?” 

“No,” Ferdinand says, and he knows he sounds completely calm, but that itself is tell enough for Lorenz, “it wasn’t like that. It’s just a ‘me’ thing. If I’m disturbing anyone, I’ll refrain from using them in the future.” 

“You aren’t disturbing anyone,” Lorenz sighs.

_I don’t understand,_ Ferdinand wants to say, but that would upset Lorenz further, so he doesn’t say anything. It gives rise to an uncomfortable silence. Lorenz stares at him for a long moment. Breathes out. In.

Outside, a cow bellows. Ferdinand’s gaze moves to his window without him meaning to react. He looks back to Lorenz, whose shoulders have sagged slightly. 

“Calving,” Lorenz says.

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, breathes. “Isn’t this late in the season?”

Lorenz eyes him. “Yes.” 

Ferdinand manages to uncurl his hand from the side of his dressing table. Rests it against his right thigh. He feels drained, the brief spike in useless adrenaline earlier dooming him to a rough come down. Lorenz breathes out audibly. Not quite a sigh. 

He crosses over to stand next to Ferdinand. Rests his left hand on Ferdinand’s shoulder. He brushes the tips of his right fingers over the crown of Ferdinand’s head. His hair needs to be brushed. Oiled. It is frizzing in the heat and from lack of regular care. 

“I’m worried about you,” Lorenz murmurs, running his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair. 

_I can tell,_ Ferdinand could say, but that would be rude. 

_I wish_ I _was worried,_ he could admit, but that would be self-defeating. 

“I haven’t been sleeping through the night,” he confesses to the lower half of Lorenz’s tunic. 

Lorenz breathes in. Out. Not quite a sigh. He scratches lightly over the base of Ferdinand’s skull. Very soothing. 

“Auntie doesn’t want you taking sleeping draughts with the nightmares,” he says, which Ferdinand had guessed since he hasn’t been offered any since admitting to nightmares a year ago. “We could try something calming for nerves –”

“It’s not nerves,” Ferdinand says, feeling somehow more exhausted. “I am—”

“Do not,” Lorenz warns him without changing the soothing motions of his fingernails on the back of Ferdinand’s neck, “tell me you are well.” 

So Ferdinand doesn’t say anything. He lets himself concentrate on Lorenz’s touch. The light, rhythmic sensation makes him want nothing more than to close his eyes and go to sleep for an age. 

That is enough. 

Ferdinand forces himself to blink. Shake his head. He shifts and uses his dressing table to help himself stand up. Lorenz’s hand drops back to his side. The late summer day is warming quickly. Ferdinand steps away from his dressing table and Lorenz to his wardrobe to find a light day shirt and doublet. 

Behind him, Lorenz sighs heavily. 

“When,” Ferdinand starts as he pulls out a shirt, “will Isabella be back?” 

Lorenz sighs again, but Ferdinand, as he pulls out a light tan doublet, hears him beginning to pack up his kit. 

“She said she would be available when you are ready. I believe she intended to visit her daughter. I will send for her.” 

“Ah,” Ferdinand says, and he looks up in time to see Lorenz latching shut his kit, “thank you, Lorenz.” 

The look he receives is pinched. He can see Lorenz bite down on the inside of his right cheek briefly before his jaw unclenches. His lips part. 

“I’m going to talk to Auntie about your sleep quality,” he says and then proceeds to talk over Ferdinand’s attempt to protest. “I will not have you arguing with me on this. I’ll write to Claude or, or Dimitri if I have to.” 

Ferdinand breathes in. Holds it. Breathes out. He could say a thousand unkind and undeserved things. It would not be noble. It would not be good. 

“Fine,” he says.

He pulls his shirt over his head a little rougher than necessary. By the time he is done pulling it over his head and extracting his hair from the open collar, Lorenz has picked up his kit and gone. Ferdinand turns to the mirror. Adjusts the collar. The interior ties bring it flush against his throat. Covering his neck.

He doesn’t meet his reflection’s gaze.

Lorenz’s concerns are not unfounded.

That is, perhaps, the worst part. Ferdinand is very aware that he is not the same person as he used to be. If he was less self-aware, he would attempt to argue that no one is the same due to the war and all it wrought. This is true, but it is not the whole truth of himself. 

Ferdinand is well-versed in how unstable he is. His sleep throughout the war was often disturbed, although he thankfully rarely remembered his dreams. He no longer attends mass as the call of the Goddess floats past him, leaving him only with a sense of vague emptiness. The taste of apples, which were his favourites from his family’s orchards, fills him with dread and uncontrollable nausea. He can’t spar with most people because it’s too easy to lose himself in the fight, something about the clashing of his weapons against even the most obvious ally stripping away what little control he manages. Holst is his most enthusiastic regular sparring partner, himself needing an outlet for the stress of his position. Ferdinand, burning with battle madness and able to switch between sword, great axe, and lance, suffices. 

A naïve part of Ferdinand had thought once the war was over, he would be better. Instead, he finds himself becoming worse. Sleeping is increasingly difficult, and he finds himself woken more often by nightmares he remembers. The poor quality of his sleep wears his control thin, and he finds himself lost occasionally within his own routine. Old wounds, particularly those sustained during what has become called the Sacking of Aegir, ache and itch more often. His appetite, which grew poor over the course of the war, barks opinions against his good sense. Pears and stone fruit have turned against him along with pheasant, which used to be his favourite meat. 

Lorenz and Hilda, the latter of whom Ferdinand is extremely embarrassed to have aware of the issue, blame his role as spymaster for his continued instability. Ferdinand understands why they would think this. He has ordered and allowed terrible things in the name of war and peace. He continues to pursue the back channels as they learn more of Those Who Slither in the Dark both by choice and by request of Claude and by proxy Dimitri. 

“The war isn’t over,” Claude said when they spoke privately before the victory feast hosted in Derdriu two weeks from victory in Enbarr and Edelgard’s death. 

“No,” Ferdinand agreed as Dimitri looked into the distance from Claude’s reception room’s balcony. “It is not.” 

This is the truth that Ferdinand knows Claude and Dimitri want to shield many of their other friends from. That the war was only the theatre: there is a great difference between having this knowledge and understanding it. Ferdinand trusts Claude to know whom to pull into the hunt, and he equally trusts Dimitri to do the hunting. 

War is only one component to statemaking. This is a lesson that Ferdinand, eavesdropping on his father from the servants passage, learned early. Spies and underhanded tricks have as much weight in establishing power as honest deeds and noble tactics. To bring peace and keep it: there are no easy moral choices. Noble intentions are empty without knowledge and resources to back them up. 

Still, Ferdinand is aware that his disposition to optimism and his idealistic desires makes him a poor suit for his role. He is, despite his mother’s network and his father’s ambitions, not a natural spymaster. Hubert had made as much clear in his snide, teasing messages sent tied to severed fingers and limbs of Ferdinand’s compromised informants throughout the war. 

The fifth time a message was sent this way, Ferdinand had not been able to intercept the discovery before Count Gloucester and Lorenz encountered the messenger who threw the missive over the House walls. The only mercy was that Claude was back in Derdriu. There is not much that Ferdinand actively hides from Claude, but there is no need for him to be given this level of detail about the shadows. 

“This is irredeemable,” Count Gloucester said after Lorenz excused himself to vomit in the adjourning room. 

Ferdinand didn’t try to say anything. He detached the message from the severed middle finger, unrolling the vellum to read Hubert’s latest taunt. Music notes. The opening lines from _The Barber of Bergliez_, which is sung like tittering laughter. Ferdinand laid the vellum over the finger. A shroud. 

“Yes,” is all he said, the word hollow even to his own ears. 

There were consequences. Count Gloucester ordered additional guard patrols and pulled Ferdinand into regular house defense discussions. Lorenz had been protective of him prior to that, but it took on a frantic quality as the war continued to deepen. Ferdinand started to use the servants passages and the underground storerooms and cellars to have a sense of personal space. A modicum of autonomy. 

It didn’t help that, as the war went from a stalemate to chaotic with the irregular forces and their attacks, Hubert’s taunting became more overt. Manuela was poisoned and only managed to escape due to being capable of faking her own death. Nathaniel was sent back in increments, pickled in apple brandy. By the time Isabella requested he squire her daughter in case she did not return, Ferdinand had entered into a blank sort of acceptance of this reality.

Being a spymaster means sacrificing friends. Mentors. Confidants. Often on purpose. More often with a sense of futility to the loss. Hubert must have understood that Ferdinand knew this. It is why he did not limit his displays of cruelty. He knew it would not break Ferdinand any more than razing Aegir had. Any more than the collapse of their ill-advised academy relationship did. 

Ferdinand proved a worthy opponent. He kept Hubert’s attention from more dangerous things, like ships traveling high on the water via Sreng and wyverns mixed into the oddly dirty pegasi. He entrusted Sylvain, who could out-maneuver Hubert’s patrols, to carry messages to the irregulars in the mountains and the ruins of Garreg Mach. Sylvain seemed to understand how to wield cruelty as a shield. 

From the Sacking of Aegir until he found himself standing in Enbarr among failed fell beasts and experiments, Ferdinand honed himself against the whetstone of war. War is not about optimisation. He did not allow himself to dwell upon the consequences. There was no time. No recourse. No remedy but the most expedient. 

This is why Ferdinand is only beginning to discover what has been done to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**1169, Guardian Moon**

Beatrice is failing. 

Her mane and tail have thinned of hair, and she walks more than flies. Ferdinand, as he tends to his pony each morning and early evening, glances towards her stall, which is separate from the rest of the horses. He hasn’t seen her lift her head to the door since the previous moon nor heard her high-pitched baying. From the smell that comes from the stall some mornings before it is cleaned, he knows that she is very sick. 

The mood of House Aegir is equally repressed. Ferdinand’s father has been away for most of the past ten moon cycles. He missed Cichol’s saint day, which meant that Ferdinand sat alone in the House chapel along with the court and merchant heads. His mother has been bedridden and her health too delicate since the loss of the unnamed babe in the previous moon. The body is kept in a cleared cold cellar yet unblessed due to his father’s absence. 

The House healer, Rolondo, spends an hour each day preserving the body before attending the duchess. Ferdinand, who leaves to attend his pony at the same time that the healer travels through the servants passage that adjourns his bedroom, catches Rolondo.

“May I see Mother today?” he asks as Rolondo passes him. 

“I am sorry,” Rolondo says, bowing and never meeting his eyes. “Not today, young master.” 

Ferdinand is careful not to think too much about any of these things while in public. If he is caught crying, he will be punished and cause Mother to worry. Sick people do not need more worries, least of all his mother, who has so many other worries. He has heard her ladies in waiting murmuring in their gentle steps through the lower halls about how Mother asks after Beatrice as often as Ferdinand. They stop their murmuring if they spot him, so Ferdinand has taken to carefully walking through the servants passages learn more. 

“She should be content enough the little boy is well,” the Viscountess Clement scoffs. “One would think she values an animal as much as an actual child.”

“Well,” Miss Lucy, who had no issue but was the first daughter of a wealthy linens trader, burbled, “children are not so different from animals.” 

“I want nothing to do with beasts,” the Lady Salviati sniffed to which the other ladies tittered. “I already must suffer my husband. She will just have to do with what that stuffy old healer tells her about the boy.” 

This is why Ferdinand finds himself at Beatrice’s back stall door. The pegasus is curled up on the ground, great wings bald in ragged patches. Her stall is kept very clean with fresh hay, feed, and water each day, but that also means Ferdinand can now see that the bad smell comes from Beatrice herself. Ferdinand glances around them to make sure none of the stable staff are watching before he clambers over the gate and lets himself fall onto the hay with a breath. 

Beatrice jerks her head up. Gaunt eyes swivel towards him. Her lips go up. 

Ferdinand has never been this close to Beatrice without his mother. Pegasi are known for attacking male family members of their riders, sometimes even with their riders present. 

He could get into so much trouble for this. 

Even so, he raises his hands. Trembling. He fails the Thunder spell twice before the weak spark that is the most he can manage briefly lights his face. It is perhaps not the wisest way to announce himself. Pegasi are not keen on Thunder. 

Beatrice doesn’t stand down, but she also doesn’t move. It may be because of how weak she is, but Ferdinand thinks he does see recognition in her wasted gaze. It is all he needs to regather his courage and begin to crawl along the stall floor.

“I’m sorry I’m not Mama,” he whispers as he draws close. “She wants to know how you are.” 

Beatrice just stares at him. Her lips have lowered to cover her teeth again, but there is no encouragement to her demeanour. Ferdinand won’t test his luck to actually attempt to touch her. It isn’t as if he, a child not even out of shorts, would learn anything valuable. Beatrice’s stench, wasted body, and the bloody sores that are causing her feathers to fall out are evidence enough.

Ferdinand swallows. Blinks. He reaches up and scrubs his eyes. Tries to swallow a sob.

“Sorry,” he whispers, feeling absolutely wretched.

A shifting. Ferdinand opens his left eye only to realise that Beatrice has moved closer. For a moment, all he can see her part-blue eye. Staring at him. Unblinking. 

Slowly, her mouth opens. Wide. Then wider. 

Ferdinand registers the scent and crackling of magic before Beatrice’s jaw snaps shut upon his right shoulder. The pain is excruciating. Against his will, he screams. 

When Ferdinand comes to, he is back in his rooms. His shoulder is heavily bandaged. He is in pain. Tears well quickly in his eyes.

“Ferdinand,” his mother says. 

He jolts. Yelps at the further pain. He blinks against more tears, swiveling his head towards the figure propped up in a wheeled chair by his bed. 

“Mama,” he sobs, forgetting himself. “Mama –”

She doesn’t reprimand him. Instead, she leans forward. Takes his reaching hands. For a long moment, Ferdinand sobs. Not because he is in pain, which he is. 

His mother is here. 

“Ferdinand,” she whispers, and her once strong grip is weak; his is stronger. “My son.” 

For years after this, Ferdinand struggles to make sense of what she said next. Not because they would be her last words to him, but because it would be years until he knew why she said them to him. Why Beatrice marked him. Why she dragged her teeth to disguise the mark. Why his mother did not allow the mark to be Healed. 

“You can never be broken.” 

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

The feast to commemorate the peace treaty between Fodlan and Almyra is a success. It boosts the already high moral of the combined Faerghus and Leicester forces, which are now calling themselves the simply the forces of Fódlan. There are no disturbances, and bards and minstrels sent from Almyra fill the House Riegan and the city below with great songs. People find joy and merriment in dance, and Claude opens his treasury to fund the half-day and night of endless food and drink. 

Ferdinand, by the evening when the toasts at the high tables are becoming increasingly drunken and ridiculous, accepts every invitation to dance he receives. He feels numb and therefore exceedingly pleasant, a side effect of drinking steadily since joining the celebrations with Claude and Dimitri, the latter of whom clearly does not drink this much very often. Dimitri is thankfully an affectionate and somewhat emotional drunk, and Claude is very much enjoying being draped in the recently ascended King of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus. The coronation ceremony and celebration is scheduled for the harvest moon. It would likely be advisable that Dimitri not drink as much then. 

It is a very different celebration than the one to commemorate victory in Enbarr and Edelgard’s defeat. That had many more security issues, so none of the high table nor commanders of note had been able to relax. Ferdinand, aside from briefly showing his face during Claude’s booming and folktale-evoking and Dimitri’s more demure, theology-laden speeches, had spent much of it in the shadows, listening to reports from others using the servants passages. It was how he discovered pheasant now turns his stomach. 

Tonight, Ferdinand is thrilled by the addition of Almyran delicacies to the high table spread, including small pastries filled with spiced game. The spice is exciting and goes excellently with the heady wine, and it does not turn his stomach. He cheerfully eats several of the pastries between the toasts, which also has the benefit of keeping him from becoming too drunk. When Seteth, in a rare good mood, asks him to dance, Ferdinand is shocked but more than happy to oblige.

“I did not know you danced,” Ferdinand says as Seteth moves in perfect time to the joyful music. 

“I don’t,” Seteth says before shrugging and smiling a little. “Flayn told me to make sure you got to have some fun this time.” 

“That is very kind of her,” Ferdinand laughs, spotting Flayn dancing with a gently smiling Marianne several pairs away. “I do miss our conversations about cooking oil.” 

“Such mundane things,” Seteth says but with a spark of humour in his eyes.

Ferdinand dances with Judith next and then Marianne, Mercedes, and Ignatz, who chatters about starting up their academy book club again. The style of music changes, and he ends up dancing with both Felix and Annette at the same time before partners switch once more and he finds himself in a pseudo-polka with Byleth, who has no idea how to navigate this dance. They end up leaving the dance floor after Byleth accidentally stomps on his left foot, laughing themselves half to tears.

“Good thing we aren’t in boots!” Ferdinand wheezes, accepting a goblet of wine from Isabella, who is working detail for the celebration. 

“Might have lost a toe then,” Byleth murmurs, accepting a goblet as well. 

“Oh, dear,” Ferdinand teases, which lights Byleth’s eyes with subtle joy, “that would be quite unfortunate! Cheers to all ten toes!” 

“Cheers!” Byleth chirps through a laugh. 

They tap their goblets together. Drink. Ferdinand appreciates the softness of the mouthfeel, characteristic of Leicester wine north of Gloucester. Adestrian wines tend to be fruity and almost punchy. The difference keeps him in the moment. It matches the celebratory mood.

“Hey,” Byleth says which brings Ferdinand back from his reverie, “where have Dimitri and Claude gone?” 

Ferdinand glances up at the high table. Sure enough, the two have disappeared along with, from what he can tell, Hilda and Mercedes. Ferdinand swivels his view around. Checking entrances. Servant doors. 

“I’m sure it’s nothing,” he hazards. 

“Hm,” Byleth starts to grunt before the door behind the high table opens and –

“Goddess blood,” Ferdinand swears before he can catch himself. 

Dimitri, likely with Hilda and Mercedes’s help, has exchanged his formal wear for a dancer’s costume that leaves just as little to the imagination as the last time Ferdinand saw him in such an outfit back in their academy days. He’s beetroot red in a way that is certainly not drink, but Claude is on his right arm and leading him around the gawking high table to the increasingly cheers on the dance floor. Claude has to walk on the balls of his feet as he uses what looks to be all of his verbal acumen to encourage Dimitri to this. He’s not particularly quiet about it.

“Dima, see?” he says, very clearly as he manages to drag Dimitri among the hoots and cheers into the middle of the floor and also within three bodies of Ferdinand and Byleth, the latter of whom is gulping wine. “This is great for morale!”

“Your morale,” Dimitri says, rather choked. 

“Dima!” Claude says, both an exclamation and a whine, before he flaps a hand at the nearly minstrel. “Do we know ‘The River Runs Through Morfis’?”

The minstrel laughs and starts to strike the tune. Dimitri turns redder, the hand Claude hasn’t caught drifting up to try to hide his face, but he gives no resistance as he joins Claude in the first steps of the old folk dance amid cheers. More people have gotten up from their tables, packing onto the dance floor as the other minstrels join the tune. 

“Ferdinand,” Byleth says, and he turns back to his old professor and is surprised that Byleth has gulped all the wine. “Are you going to drink your goblet?” 

“Oh, no,” Ferdinand says, handing his goblet to Byleth and at the same time spotting Petra raising her eyebrows at him. “I think I will dance with Petra if you are occupied.” 

“This type of dancing is a bit intense for me,” Byleth admits as Ferdinand waves to Petra, who begins to make her way over. “I am going to sit with Dedue.” 

_Are the two of you courting?_ Ferdinand nearly asks but thankfully he is able to bite his tongue. 

The dancing becomes somewhat wild after that. Petra is an excellent partner for these high energy songs, her swiftness extraordinarily elegant. Ferdinand only gives a brief though to undoing his cuffs to roll up his shirtsleeves so she doesn’t have to slip off the fabric. He is conscious of the discolouring to his left arm from a Thoron that melted his shield, but considering how scarred Dimitri is, it’s a rather silly thing to be fussed about. 

By the sixth folk dance, Ferdinand has to take a break. He bows to Petra, who beams at him and punches him lightly on the arm. Ferdinand laughs, punching her back without thinking about it. It is the right choice: her entire expression turns as bright as the sun. 

“You must come to Brigid,” she says as Ferdinand starts to move to find water. “I will write you an invite.” 

“I would love to!” Ferdinand says, very loudly so he is heard over the celebratory chaos.

He isn’t able to find any water and thus ends up with another wine goblet from Isabella, who smiles at him a little apologetically. Most of the tables, including the high table, have been moved to make more room for dancing and carousing, so Ferdinand is left to fish around for his handkerchief by standing almost up against a wall. He wipes his brow and under his jaw, watching what feels like all of the surviving Houses and people of note going wild as Dimitri, likely spurred on by drink and Claude, shouts for the well-known song _The Eight Dragon Sisters_. 

Ferdinand is intensely relieved he chose to take a break now. Partners toss each other as part of this song, and he isn’t sure if he would survive being thrown by Petra. 

“Ah.” 

Ferdinand turns. Lorenz is edging along the wall, looking extremely pristine with not a hair out of place. He comes within an armslengh of Ferdinand before stopping. Very politely. 

A part of Ferdinand boggles that Lorenz is still standing on propriety as Dimitri picks Claude up with one hand and throws him into Raphael’s raised arms to deafening cheers. Claude looks like he is about to go mad with happiness. 

“Lorenz,” Ferdinand says, and he moves close so he doesn’t have to shout so loudly; it is perhaps a bit too much because Lorenz’s eyebrows shoot up, “where have you been? I haven’t seen you dancing.”

Lorenz eyes him. His undone sleeves. How strands of hair have escaped Marianne’s braiding and stick to his forehead. His full wine goblet.

Behind them, dancers are being thrown at the climax of the second verse. Ferdinand can see Hilda launching Marianne towards Claude, who, very wisely, is not attempting to throw Dimitri. Rather, it seems Dimitri is throwing both Sylvain and Felix at the same time towards Byleth and Dedue. Sylvain appears to be laughing, but Felix is clearly doing everything in his power not to shriek. 

“Are you asking me to dance,” Lorenz says, less a question than a statement.

“If you want to,” Ferdinand says because he’s getting tired but dancing with Lorenz would be fun. 

It would be fun to throw him just once, too. 

Lorenz sags slightly. Softens. He reaches out and takes Ferdinand’s free hand in both his own.

“I don’t really feel like dancing,” he admits, smiling wanly. “But if you would give me your company for a short walk in the garden, I would be very happy.”

“Then of course,” Ferdinand says because it is a very reasonable request.

Getting to the western door is very easy, since everyone is now cramming into the dance floor to get a better view of the action. Ferdinand doesn’t let Lorenz extract his right hand, curling their fingers together as they step out into fresh air and descend a short stairway into the garden. It is well-lit by night lamps and the half-moon overhead. Lorenz’s low heels click on the stone path. 

“You didn’t wear dancing shoes?” Ferdinand asks after they’ve walked for a couple of minutes. 

“No,” Lorenz says, looking down at their entwined fingers instead of meeting Ferdinand’s gaze. “It is poor of me for I know how momentous this occasion is, but I am not in a celebratory mood.”

“Oh. Why not?” Ferdinand asks.

He slows their steps beneath a lamp and deep in the seasonal flowers. Lorenz breathes out a deep breath. He finally extracts his fingers from Ferdinand’s grip, steeping his hands against each other as he examines the space on the path between them. 

“Is now really the time to be making peace with Almyra,” Lorenz says rather than asks, his eyebrows drawn so closely together they almost become one. “We have so much to do on our own soil, and this will split Claude’s attention even further. I am also aware that Dimitri likely feels some responsibility for their assistance and fostering. I suppose I fear we may go from one war to beholden to the demands of another power in exchange for short-term celebration and resources.” 

_Have you expressed this to Claude or Dimitri?_ Ferdinand wants to ask. 

_Can you express this half as reasonably to them as to me?_ he knows is the real question.

“Celebrating is important,” Ferdinand says, attempting to be reasonable. “We cannot risk famine this winter nor further depleting our resources. The people need to see that the future is bright. Sometimes that means living in the moment and dealing with the consequences later.” 

Lorenz doesn’t respond. He stands with his hands steepled, looking down at the tulips illuminated by the lamplight and half moon overhead. Ferdinand watches the way he clenches his teeth. The jut of his jaw. 

“You carry a pegasus’s mark,” he says, very softly and nearly inaudible even though they stand so close, “and you are gifted with both Thunder and Fire. Do you know what that means?” 

Ferdinand breathes in. Out. 

Behind them, there is a window-rattling cheer. 

“Hubert told me,” he says. 

It was the third time they had lain together, and the first time they’d seen each other naked. Hubert never bathed at the same time as others, and Ferdinand was careful to only bathe among those who were unlikely to recognise the scars on his shoulder. Hubert had stared for a full breath at the pale marks, just as Ferdinand did at Hubert’s mottled hands. For a moment, Hubert’s harsh demeanour had melted, and he touched his ruined fingers to the white, slightly pitted edges of Ferdinand’s flesh. 

“A pegasus marks the one it chooses to avenge its soul should it be wronged,” Ferdinand echoes to the tulips.

Hubert’s kisses that evening had been so gentle. Almost reverent when Ferdinand allowed him to mouth over the marks. He let Ferdinand examine the deep gouges in the pads of his fingers, the texture completely different from weapons calluses. Hubert flushed to be touched like that, more intimately than anything else they could have done. Ferdinand understood they had made a connection. 

Against the memory, he lifts his goblet to his lips. Takes a deep sip. It tastes too strongly and he has to will himself to swallow and not spit it out. He lifts his gaze to the lamp instead of Lorenz or the flowers. 

“My mother passed when I was six,” he says, and he clings to the taste of the wine to ground himself. “My father never knew I had been marked. I always made sure to dress myself and that there was no reason for discipline that required the removal of my shirt.” 

Lorenz makes a noise. Ferdinand knows he must explain himself now or lose Lorenz. Lose himself more than he already has. 

“I don’t know if I knew Fire before the marking, but it didn’t give me any prowess that I didn’t already have. You know I am not particularly skilled at magic,” and he knows he should look at Lorenz so he will understand this isn’t self-pity, but he finds it impossible to do so and continue speaking; he forges ahead; “I work hard to make up for my deficits.”

Silence. Ferdinand finally manages to shift his gaze from the lamp. Lorenz is watching him. Hands clenched at his sides. There’s a flush to his neck, but his face is pale. 

“Were,” Lorenz says, and his hands unclench only to ball back into fists, “you and Hubert courting?” 

Ferdinand swallows. His mouth is dry. He finally leans down to put the goblet down on the stone path. When he rights himself, Lorenz is blinking a bit too much. Trying not to cry. 

“No,” Ferdinand says; without something to do with his hands, he wraps his fingers together and rubs the cuticle of his left thumb along the side of his right. “We –”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Lorenz says, very small and wobbly. “That was unfair of me to ask.” 

_But I want to tell you,_ Ferdinand wants to say, but then he might cry. 

_Everyone hates him now,_ he thinks, very lowly. 

“It was very improper,” he says because that is the truth. 

Lorenz is quiet. He looks down at his hands, still steepled in front of himself. Ferdinand isn’t sure how to read his expression. He looks apologetic but also fairly angry. Ferdinand can’t tell exactly why and doesn’t know if he should ask. 

“Maybe,” he starts, which makes Lorenz meet his gaze again, “we should talk about this later. When, uh, I haven’t been drinking and dancing quite so much.” 

“Yes,” Lorenz says, although his expression doesn’t ease any. “Good evening, Ferdinand. Thank you for walking with me.” 

“Good evening, Lorenz,” Ferdinand says as Lorenz turns and heads towards the guest quarters around the southside of the House. “You are welcome.” 

He watches Lorenz’s back for a long moment before he turns away. He leaves the wine goblet on the path because he fears if he picks it up again, he’ll end up drinking it and being sick. He walks towards the northern part of the House, hoping for some time alone. 

Instead, he rounds a corner in the garden path and comes upon Marianne seated alone with a glass in hand. She looks up at his footfall, eyes widening with surprise. Ferdinand stands still, momentarily at a loss. He opens his mouth to greet her only for his voice to fail him. It seems he’s spent all of his good manners tonight. 

“Ferdinand?” Marianne asks, timid but so sincere; she holds out her glass of what Ferdinand, even through his distress, is surprised to recognise as an Edmund wine. “Are you well?”

He shakes his head because he tries to make a policy of lying as little as possible. Marianne’s lips pull down briefly at the corners, but she rights them. Her gaze is almost commiserating as she reaches under the folds of her skirt to pick up the bottle this wine is from. 

“Sit with me for a while,” she murmurs, setting the bottle on the bench. “I am sorry I do not have another glass.” 

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, very weakly. “We may share.” 

Her lips twitch. Her small, rare smiles. Ferdinand steps forward. Turns. Sits. He leans back on the bench. Marianne lifts her glass. Takes a sedate sip. Swallows.

Ferdinand looks up at the moon. The stars. 

They stay like this until the sun begins to rise. 

In the past few years, Ferdinand has wondered what life would be like if his father had not been who he was. If his father, who loved himself, could have had room in his heart for someone else. It didn’t have to be Ferdinand. It didn’t have to be Mother. It could have been anyone else. He even wishes, in moments of weakness, he would suddenly discover that his father had a secret affair.

Anything to prove that his father might have had some sort of redeemable quality. Ferdinand is not holding out to discover such a thing. He knows his father’s policies. He knows what he did, the Insurrection of the Seven only one brick in a wall of many ill-deeds. If there is anything Ferdinand has learned and takes some pride in, it is that he is not easily fooled by people as he was when he was seventeen. 

It is why Hubert stands in such stark contrast. Ferdinand knows Hubert was not entirely irredeemable. There were times that Hubert was kind when he should have been cruel, most often when it cost him the most. The Crest-stone poison in his blood could have made a Fell Beast of his flesh, but he stood still and kept his lips sealed when Ferdinand raised his great axe. No matter what he did through their cat-and-cat spy games, it was like his devotion to Edelgard: he served. It was not simply because of birth duty. It was utterly, earth-shakingly sincere. 

Hubert was the Adrestian Empire. He was that fallen kingdom’s ugliness and its greatest jewel. Where Edelgard had shone a beacon upon the future, Hubert had bent his knee and bared naked his neck to forge the path forward. If they had both been more cruel, they could have won. But they were young, and they had dreams, and once upon a time, they had tried to avoid going to war against their friends. 

Ferdinand does not try to explain this to anyone. Not even Claude, who would probably respect Ferdinand’s feelings on the subject best. Claude would not understand because he is not of Adrestria. He never knew the intricate, personal escape of the opera or the intricate marriage contracts that preceded the very thought of courting or the orphans that clawed their way up through the streets to dance in the halls of Houses as entertainment. 

He could talk to Manuela, but that would jeopardise their spy and spymaster relationship. He is already too attached to his spies, since too many were what remained of his mother and youth. Ferdinand knows he started emotionally withdrawing during the terrible third year of the war. For the three months Manuela spent captive and then presumed dead, Ferdinand thought seriously of turning himself over just for a chance to see her body. If Lorenz and Claude hadn’t dragged him into that late-night fortune telling, he might have gone through with it.

The truth is: 

The war did break him. The worst part is Ferdinand understands this. It broke him in all the small ways he chose by siding against the Empire, and it broke him in the larger, more obvious ways. He saw Bernadetta burn at Gronder. He drove his axe through Hubert’s chest. He rode ahead of his citizens and remaining House staff, his father’s axe so heavy upon his back. He let himself be shot so he could cast Thoron and Bolganone upon the Imperial battalion sacking Aegir at point-blank range.

He hadn’t thought about the consequences at the time. He was grieving his father’s fatal greed. All he could think was that he didn’t want anyone else to suffer for the name _Aegir_. He hadn’t realised what he had done until Nathaniel was pulling an arrow from his gut. Nathaniel, aside from some blood splatter, was clean. Ferdinand was covered in dirt, blood, and charred gore. 

“Nathan,” he asked, forgetting everything including the fact it was only his mother who called Nathaniel such, “what happened? Where is the enemy?” 

“They are vanquished, my lord,” Nathaniel said without pausing in application of an anti-infection concoction to the wound. “I ask not your forgiveness for my misdeeds, but, please, let me heal you. Your lady mother will curse me if you die.” 

_I’m not your lord,_ Ferdinand almost said before he remembered. The sudden understanding kept him still, staring at Nathaniel and later Isabella who pledged their hands and hearts to him as they stitched his wounds shut. Isabella had the Aegir seal, which Ferdinand only accepted when they agreed to find him paper. Ferdinand wrote them pardons and then, after refusing their arguments, sent them to take stock of their resources and remaining citizenry. 

“As your lord, this is what you must obey,” he said when they tried to protest leaving him vulnerable. “I want to know my people are safe and what they need, so find them and let that guide me to what I must do.” 

The Sacking of Aegir is common knowledge. The people who escaped under Ferdinand’s chaotic command in the early months of the war have spread the tale of the attack on the city and House. They speak of the Duke’s death and of Ferdinand’s frantic stand: a beacon of light and flame that illuminated the young lord wielding the Great Axe of Aegir. There is a bard’s tale about that growing in popularity in villages near Garreg Mach. 

The tale would probably be popular in Aegir and Gronder if anyone was able to live there. The land is untenable due to overfarming and much of the water temporarily poisoned by the use of the streams to dispose of magical waste. Hanneman along with Seteth are currently working on plans to help Ferdinand figure out how to restore the land and water to something approaching habitable. 

These days, it is used to illustrate the necessity of the war. The depravity of the Adrestian Empire. For those of Faerghus, turning against one’s own is the most deplorable thing imaginable. Within the Alliance, such an abuse of fertile resources is despicable. Ferdinand agrees with all of them, but he also understands that it was part of the war. Complete destruction. A continuous insult to Ferdinand, who sided with the Kingdom and Alliance. 

It is his fault. He chose his allegiance. He made his choices. 

It also was not a sacking. Ferdinand wants to scream every time he hears the term because he knows that that there had been a choice. His father could have chosen to warn everyone, could have prioritised the survival of his people. He chose wealth over duty. Chose gold and jewels over life. Nathaniel and his hands have the blame for the former duke’s death, but Ferdinand will not allow himself to be washed of responsibility. He was there. He could have stopped him. Not with a weapon because he was not armed at the time, but Ferdinand knew magic. He didn’t use it. 

He knew his father. He knew what he was and what he treasured. It was not the people. It was not his duty. His father valued his life and the weight of the gold he could carry. 

So Ferdinand let him die.

Ferdinand does not regret it. 

He knows he made the right choice. 

This is what he dreams of the most.


	3. Chapter 3

**1173, Red Wolf Moon**

Father has been in Enbarr for nearly four months. 

Ferdinand is not sure if he is happy or irritated with this. On one hand, his father’s absence means he has much more freedom about the House. Outside of his tutors and church, he is allowed to come and go about the castle and the grounds as he pleases. He spends much of his free time in good weather riding or helping tend the horses. Recently, the weapons master caved to his curious barrage of questions and has started to train him. He isn’t much for the bow, but the basics of sword, axe, and lance are equally rewarding. 

On the other hand, Ferdinand is aware that his father’s repeated, lengthy absences causes unrest and instability in the House and the town. Merchants squabble amongst each other, and Ferdinand has heard the House management complaining about price increases and how the garrisoned troops take advantage of the staff. There is nothing that Ferdinand may do that would be helpful. He is well out of shorts, but he is eleven and scrawny for his age. It is very difficult to assert authority.

Thus, Ferdinand finds himself, as the weather turns poor for riding, spending a great deal of time with Rolondo, who is occasionally assisted by the apothecary Nathaniel. Rolondo has always been kind to him in that distant manner adults have, and he tolerates Ferdinand looking at his work and reading his various books and tomes. Nathaniel, who Ferdinand knows was one of his mother’s business associates, is more friendly and answers Ferdinand’s questions when he is in town. 

“Tell me of the opera,” Ferdinand begs because he’s noticed Rolondo will stop working to listen, too. “What story is on right now?”

“It is _Loog and the Cursed Harp_,” Nathaniel days before launching into a gregarious retelling of the tale.

“That’s all fooey,” Rolondo scoffs at the end even though he has sat down and given Nathaniel just as much undivided attention as Ferdinand. “Loog had many talents, but he was not a musician. No one would have been able to gift him a harp without some suspicion.” 

“It’s a fantasy, not a history,” Nathaniel groans, rolling his eyes before winking at Ferdinand. “Did you like the story?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says because he had absolutely adored imagining how the Lady Witch would sound like when singing the harp’s magic. “Who is the Lady Witch?”

“Manuela, of course,” Nathaniel says with a shake of his head. “She is the most popular now.”

“I really hope I may hear her someday!” Ferdinand says to which both Rolondo and Nathaniel smile.

“You’ll be a real lady’s man,” Nathaniel teases. “Sweeping even divas off their feet.”

“I cannot ride a wyvern yet,” Ferdinand said, uncertain of how else he would lift an adult off their feet.

This made Rolondo and Nathaniel laugh so hard that Rolondo snorted. Ferdinand isn’t sure if they are laughing at him or not, but he doesn’t sense they are mocking him either. He smiles because it is nice to see them both happy. 

Many years later, Rolondo is dying Ferdinand’s childhood room. The servants door is open, and Ferdinand has dragged his body through it. Outside, there are screams. The crack of distant Thunder. Rolondo whispers his father is running. Using the tunnels that run deep under earth of which only Ferdinand and a select few have knowledge. 

“Run,” Rolondo whispers. 

“Not yet,” Ferdinand says, chokes.

Rolondo’s face falls. His fading eyes well with tears. Ferdinand squeezes the healer’s hands. Breathes in. 

“Thank you for your service,” Ferdinand says as Rolondo chokes a sob. “I promise: I will make right.” 

“My lord,” Rolondo gurgles and then is gone. 

Ferdinand breathes out. He stands. He has no weapons at hand. He doesn’t need them. 

He descends the servants passage. 

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

Ferdinand’s relationship with Dimitri is complex. 

In their academy days, their relationship was mostly regulated to the Training Hall. Dimitri was skilled from the beginning with his lance, and Ferdinand had been eager to spar against him since he had so distinguished himself in his maiden battle. Their first bout was cheerful and very polite, both using training lances and less focus on actual combat than feeling each other out. It was something they kept up until everything fell apart. Dimitri always seemed more comfortable with combat than with words, and Ferdinand, rather selfishly, enjoyed the silence. 

The other place they had sometimes encountered each other outside of the classroom was in the stables. Dimitri kept a sweet gray mare, who would later somehow end up in Claude’s possession in the early couple of years of the war. Ferdinand was the first in the stables nearly every day out of habit, so he came to know Dimitri and Marianne’s comings and goings there well. Some days they walked to morning service together. Marianne always went to morning service, but sometimes Dimitri, especially in the later academy days, was too exhausted.

“Dimitri,” Ferdinand said three mornings after Jeralt’s death when Dimitri actually sat down in the stable yard, massaging his temples to relieve a headache, “you should rest.”

“No,” Dimitri said, waving a hand to stop Marianne from casting a healing spell. “These come and go. I will be fine when I catch my breath.” 

There wasn’t time to catch their breaths. Ferdinand does not remember the defense of Garreg Mach very well. Unlike the battles that followed the Sacking of Aegir, that day seems to have massive blocks within his memory. Ferdinand wishes he couldn’t comprehend the level of bloodshed between people he still considered friends, but that would be a lie. He still considers them friends. He was simply too innocent back then, and that battle was too real. 

What he does remember clearly is riding with Linhardt after the battle collapsed as the great gorge cracked the earth open. With no other choice, they both headed back towards their home territories. Linhardt’s hair was partially shorn because it had caught fire. His uneven silhouette was stark against the setting sun. 

“I don’t want this,” Linhardt kept saying, Ferdinand barely able to concentrate well enough to comprehend his words. “I wish I never went to the academy.”

“You cannot escape your mark,” Ferdinand remembers saying. 

“What?” Linhardt asked, momentarily thrown out of his weepy panic by anger. “Just because we have Crests shouldn’t mean we must make war!” 

_That’s not what I meant,_ Ferdinand thought, but he had already said too much and bit his tongue. 

It was the last time he and Linhardt spoke. Linhardt is alive, but he has shut himself in his lands for four full years. He has not assumed his title, even though his father has been dead for nearly three years. During the war, Ferdinand assumed it was to avoid suspicion since he fed Ferdinand and his informants what magic supplies were circulating within the Empire and where waste was being sent. 

Now, sitting and reading the missives he put off for the past couple of days, Ferdinand suspects that Linhardt intends to forego his title altogether and end the House. 

_I have done terrible things,_ Linhardt’s letter begins before he launches into a confession of all of his experiments during the war. 

This is the type of letter that Ferdinand tries his best not to share with Claude. For all of Claude’s strengths, he takes people’s feelings too seriously and ranks them easily over duty. Linhardt’s confessions are valid for the circumstances, much as Hanneman’s are. Ferdinand rerolls the parchment and stands up from the writing desk to go find Dimitri. 

He is, just as Ferdinand guessed, in the stables tending to Lucia, his wyvern. Claude is more than likely still asleep this early in the morning. Dimitri looks up from his inspection of Lucia’s front left foot. Both Dimitri and Lucia blink at Ferdinand with similar feeling of tiredness.

“Sorry to bother you so early,” Ferdinand says because Dimitri doesn’t care about greetings and wyverns hate wasting time; he holds out the letter. “But you should read this.” 

“Thank you,” Dimitri says, taking the letter and unrolling it in the light coming from the back stall door. 

Ferdinand takes a seat by the water trough as Dimitri reads. He fishes his morning biscuit from his back pocket where he’d stuffed it with his handkerchief. Lucia eyes the biscuit with some curiosity at Ferdinand shoves a corner into his mouth. Ferdinand eyes her back as he gnaws on his breakfast. 

“Hm,” Dimitri grunts, drawing Ferdinand and Lucia’s attention as he rolls the letter back up. “He does not sound well.” 

_Kind of an understatement,_ Ferdinand thinks as he swallows a small chunk of biscuit.

“I think he aims to abandon his title,” Ferdinand says because that is pertinent. 

Dimitri frowns. He looks at Ferdinand’s biscuit with almost the same expression as Lucia. Ferdinand, who had been about to put it back into his mouth, pauses.

“Have you had breakfast?” 

“Huh?” Dimitri asks before he shakes his head. “No, Claude isn’t awake.” 

_Claude would want you to eat breakfast,_ Ferdinand senses, but it is impolite to meddle in other people’s personal affairs. 

Instead, he takes the letter back as Dimitri holds it out to him. Dimitri stands up, his hips clicking with the motion. He reaches up, running his fingers through his hair. It doesn’t do much for the general mess it seems to always be in when it is out of braids. The courting chain is currently looped several times around Dimitri’s neck. It glints in the dim lighting. 

“A merchant from Hevring sold provisions to villages around Garreg Mach,” Dimitri says, hands drifting absently to the chain; he starts to tighten it as he speaks to move the Emblem of Almyra to sit between his collarbones. “During the first winter. Prices were reasonable. Did you and Linhardt have something to do with that?” 

“I knew,” Ferdinand says, glad he wasn’t chewing his biscuit. “I did not ask it of him, but after Hanneman left Enbarr due to what happened to Manuela, Linhardt made his own choices.” 

Dimitri glances at him. Brows drawn together in alarmed confusion. Ferdinand realises he may not know about Manuela’s captivity and escape. There’s an awkward pause before Dimitri blinks, expression easing as he clearly files that information away for later. In some ways, he is much easier to read than Claude. 

Ferdinand has, however, spent more than enough time around Claude to know his major tells. When Claude starts to get stressed out, he has a tendency to stop both blinking and breathing. He overcompensates by first talking more and then, if the issue cannot be resolved, by closing himself off. Ferdinand has walked in on Claude using his courting handkerchief as a veil more than once.

When Dimitri is stressed, it is more obvious. Ferdinand knows how the veneer of chivalric courtesy fractures. It is ugly. He was there when Edelgard revealed herself. When everything fell apart. 

“His confession cannot be disregarded,” Dimitri says, not unkindly. “He played both sides of the war.” 

“Oh, yes, of course,” Ferdinand says, realises that his pensiveness has been mistaken for undue sympathy. “My thought is that this needs urgent response because if Linhardt collapses House Hevring, we will have no choice but to do something regarding him. Herving is the only Adrestian House standing with any clout with Imperial supporters. Linhardt knows this, too.”

Dimitri blinks. His fingers curl upon each other. Not into a fist. Discomfort. 

“I…” he starts before he breaks eye contact with Ferdinand altogether, staring at Lucia’s foreleg and belly without seeing her. “I understand.”

Ferdinand nods. Stand up. His joints don’t click, which he suspects is only a matter of time and luck. He doesn’t look forward to getting older. He isn’t blessed nor cursed with Dimitri’s level of pain tolerance. 

“I’ll speak to –” Ferdinand starts.

“No,” Dimitri says, still to Lucia but more solid than before. “I will speak to Claude. You were right to give this to me first.” 

Ferdinand breathes out. He bows. Not lower than his waist but properly. He can feel Dimitri’s gaze swing back to him. His fingers uncurl. Arms limp at his sides. 

“Dimitri,” Ferdinand says as he straightens. 

He clasps his right hand over his heart, left arm and fist at his back. Dimitri gazes at him for a moment before he inclines his head slightly. An acknowledgement and dismissal. Ferdinand turns and lets himself back out of the stall door. He heads back towards the main house, gnawing mindlessly at his biscuit.

He does feel bad to put this on Dimitri’s plate, but he understands the interplay of chivalry and justice better than Claude, whose heart sometimes bleeds too easily. Dimitri knows they have two choices: either convince Linhardt to inherit his title and swear fealty or absorb the House in ruins and its assets without contest. It will be his decision, Ferdinand will extend the options, and then Linhardt will be free to make his choice. Claude will not like it, but he will understand.

This is why when he became properly reacquainted with Dimitri all Ferdinand felt was a sick sort of relief. Dimitri looked at him, still coated in the gore of Gronder Field and did not flinch from the monstrous thing he saw in Ferdinand. He did not smile, but he did not judge nor worry like everyone else. He did not hesitate to drive his lance through the face of the soldier Ferdinand had just struck down.

In that moment, Ferdinand knew:

He would see Dimitri made King. With every fiber of his being, he would make his monster his own so that he may bend his knee to Dimitri Alexandre of the House Blaiddyd and offer his hands and head. For all that he may play at being spymaster and how he wears his father’s title, Ferdinand knows who he is.

Ferdinand is his mother’s son.

During his time at the academy, Ferdinand’s mark began to change.

Beatrice’s mark never acted like a normal wound. It did not ache or itch after the initial closing of flesh, and it didn’t warp or soften in colour like other childhood scars. It healed flat within his skin, much like how his Crest acted when inactive. Ferdinand got into the habit of checking the mark regularly in the mirror, often in the evening before bed. Beatrice had done a good job of disguising it, but the ragged edges were slowly shifting. It made Ferdinand’s entire arm feel odd. Like it didn’t quite belong to him. 

Hubert noticed, of course. They were very keen on each other while at the academy and spent perhaps too much time together after hours even after Ferdinand switched to Blue Lions. The mark shifted faster after that, and Hubert’s interest in the changes were of only sincere curiosity. Ferdinand knew Hubert’s fascinations and cruelties well enough to understand the difference. 

“Does it hurt?” he asked one evening not long before everything fell apart. 

“No,” Ferdinand murmured as Hubert’s fingers mapped the edges. “I actually don’t have that much feeling there.” 

“I think it’s trying to manifest,” Hubert told him the last time they lay together.

He said this as he handed over a damp cloth to clean up. Ferdinand frowned slightly as he rubbed himself down.

“I wasn’t aware these types of marks could manifest,” he said, handing the cloth back to Hubert.

“Hm,” Hubert said, folding it over and cleaning himself up, brow slightly drawn together. “I do not know myself. I do not think they act like Crests, but that is the only logical comparison I know.” 

It doesn’t act like a Crest. Ferdinand knows this now. In combat, the mark is silent. Ferdinand has only felt it three times. Once as he called Bolganone and Thoron upon the Imperial forces sacking Aegir. Once when he swung his axe at Hubert that final time. Once as he called Thoron to protect Dimitri from an Imperial archer aiming for his right side as they face Edelgard in the throne room. No one noticed the first nor the last, but Hubert’s eyes went wide at the light. 

“Ah,” he said as Ferdinand smashed open his chest. 

This is all Ferdinand can think about when Claude and Dimitri summon him to Claude’s reception room after lunchtime. Claude looks slightly pinched, although he greets Ferdinand warmly. Dimitri is by the window as he seems to prefer, and he nods absently to Ferdinand in greeting. It isn’t taciturn, just distant. They’ve likely been arguing either between themselves or with their morning appointments.

“Lorenz came by with concerns,” Claude gripes as Ferdinand accepts a cup of what he hopes was tea brewed by anyone but either of them. 

“I thought he had left for Gloucester with the morning light,” Ferdinand says, surprised.

“So did I,” Claude grumbles as he picks up a leftover potato chunk from the lunch tray; he shoves it in his mouth and chews angrily.

_Was he half as calm as he was when speaking with me,_ Ferdinand thinks with no small measure of apprehension as he sips his tea.

His eyes immediately water. The chamomile is overwhelming. It tastes like the flowers have been sitting for an hour. He swallows, glad neither Claude nor Dimitri are looking directly at him. 

“What did he say?” Ferdinand asks after Claude has swallowed his potato. 

Claude grunts. He looks at the empty lunch tray like it’s personally offended him with its emptiness. Dimitri looks away from his contemplation of the middle distance. He glances at Claude, who looks back possibly angrier than before. Dimitri’s brows draw slightly together, which reveals edges of scar tissue over his covered eye. He looks at Ferdinand, clearly uncertain of what to do. 

“He made some valid points,” Dimitri says.

“Which he should have voiced two months ago!” Claude explodes, stomping over to his desk to sit down with a hollow thud in the chair. “Of all times for Lorenz Hellman Gloucester _of all people_ to hold his tongue!”

_Ah,_ Hubert’s ghost remarks in the back of Ferdinand’s head. 

Ferdinand leans forward to set his tea down on the lunch tray. He’s glad, not for the first time and certainly not the last, that he’s never been given to nervous tremours. He stands straight again, allowing his hands to shift to rest at his sides. Parade rest. Claude frowns, but the stance makes Dimitri relax. Claude’s frown deepens. 

“He did mention some of this to me last night,” Ferdinand says because he senses he’ll have to fish out what exactly went wrong.

“Count Gloucester gave the treaty his blessing not even a day after it was proposed,” Claude grumbles, drumming his fingers on his desk. “I had assumed that the House was in agreement, so I worked on Margrave Edmund and Viscountess Kupala. Lorenz –”

“His parents are failing,” Dimitri says, more than a little timidly. “I don’t think he’s thinking very clearly.”

“He’s been like this for two and a half years!” Claude snaps before he raises the hand drumming on the desk to pinch the bridge of his nose. “But, yes, you’re right. That was poor of me. I’m sorry. I am not angry with either of you.”

Ferdinand holds his parade rest. It’s easier than trying to further suppress his discomfort, and the familiarity also eases Dimitri, who doesn’t seem to know how to respond. He looks more cowed than he should. 

Claude breathes in deep. He drags his hand over his face before dropping it to rest on the arm of his chair. He looks at Ferdinand with an expression of exhaustion with which they are both unfortunately too familiar. 

“This is not for you to sort out,” Claude says, which is both unnecessary to explain and a little bit of a relief to hear for confirmation. “We should talk about Linhardt.”

“Yes,” Ferdinand says as Dimitri picks up the letter where it’s unrolled on the desk. 

“What a complete fucking mess,” Claude sighs, sounding more exhausted as he shares the letter with Dimitri. “He sounds profoundly unwell.” 

“I would not be surprised,” Ferdinand says, and he finds his gaze drifting to the floor before he forces himself to look back up; the lapse is unfortunately noticeable as both Claude and Dimitri frown at him. “He and Caspar were close.”

“Close,” Dimitri echoes as Claude turns a sickly shade of grey. 

Ferdinand abruptly remembers Claude shot Caspar with Failnaught. Ferdinand and Mercedes recovered the body. Sylvain helped them cut a lock of Caspar’s distinctive hair as proof and then made Caspar’s body disappear. 

_Ah_

“Childhood friends,” Ferdinand says, almost entirely outside of himself. 

“Claude,” Dimitri starts. 

Claude puts his hand up. He blinks a few times, clearly willing himself to breath. He sucks in a shallow breath. Blows it out. Repeats the process. 

It hurts to watch. It is also incredible. 

“So that is it,” Claude says, very thinly. 

He lowers his hand only for Dimitri to catch it and cover in both his own. Ferdinand watches them because looking away again would be more awkward. 

“We have choices,” Dimitri says, more to Claude than Ferdinand because they’ve had this conversation. 

“Have him swear fealty to you,” Claude says, a little too brightly and far too urgently.

“I can’t force him,” Dimitri says after a very awkward pause. “Fealty is something that must be offered of free will.” 

“I can suggest it,” Ferdinand says before he holds up his hands as Claude looks at him hopefully. “But he may still collapse the House and we will be left with the same problems.” 

“I refuse any opinion in which he dies,” Claude says, very bluntly. 

There’s an awkward silence. Ferdinand’s mouth opens, but Dimitri beats him to it, expression very upset. 

“We can’t stop death.” 

Ferdinand feels possibly even more awkward. He wouldn’t have worded it quite like that. Claude looks somewhere between taken aback and angry. Luckily, the surprise gives his brain time to kick up a less emotional response than he might have had otherwise. 

“We can’t,” Claude agrees, which seems to calm Dimitri moderately; he looks back to Ferdinand with bleak expression. “I will write something. How long may you remain in Derdriu? I need time to put my words together.” 

“I have no business in Gloucester that is time-sensitive until the end of next week,” Ferdinand says because it is true. 

He knows, however, that Lorenz will not appreciate having their conversation from the night before further postponed. Ferdinand wonders, a bit lowly, how much longer Lorenz will put up with him. 

“It shouldn’t take that long,” Claude sighs, leaning his head against the back of his chair and closing his eyes. “Just. Not today. I have a stomachache.” 

“You should rest,” Dimitri murmurs. 

“You gave me too intense a workout,” Claude says completely without heat before his eyes pop open as he realises what he just said. “Uh.”

Dimitri’s mouth is open. Ferdinand, not completely able to recover from the topic whiplash, feels his face stretch into possibly the most awkward smile ever. 

“Well,” he says, very loudly, “if you have need of me, I am going to, uh, be in the library. Or the stables. Yes. Evening. Afternoon!”

He bows, straightens, and beats a hasty retreat out of the reception room. Neither Dimitri nor Claude call after him, which means he is safely dismissed. He hopes that the two of them have it out before the rest of the afternoon appointments. Either that or cancel them altogether. 

He finds himself, to his own surprise, actually in the Riegan library. It is very large in comparison to most Houses, possibly the largest altogether. Ferdinand passes by the haphazardly arranged desk and chair that Claude usually occupies and walks straight between the stacks of information on the Eastern Church and the recently perused scrolls on Almyra. There isn’t any additional seating in this part of the room, but there is a window that overlooks the southern gate.

Ferdinand kneels down. He folds his arms on the sil and pillows his cheek as he watches a couple of carts carrying away the debris from the celebration the night before. The late summer sun moves slowly overhead, clouds thin and unobtrusive. 

Without immediate distraction, Ferdinand’s mind wanders to the thing that has been bothering him all day. 

Beatrice’s mark is shifting again.


	4. Chapter 4

**1176, Ethereal Moon**

Rain beats against the chapel windows. 

Ferdinand kneels on the stone. Hands at his back. He looks up at the stern face of the Aegir icon of Saint Cichol, lit by the candles upon the altar. His thighs have stopped trembling. They are numb as are the rest of his legs to his feet. 

He has been here for two hours. There are still three left in penance. One for each word spoken out of turn to his father in front of the Marquis Vestra and the Archbishop Rhea’s second, Seteth. It was so stupid. Ferdinand doesn’t know why he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. He is lucky that it is only this. Seteth’s presence and ire when the situation escalated is likely all that saved Ferdinand something more harsh. 

The stern, unmoving face of the Cichol icon seems to taunt him. 

“Child.” 

Ferdinand jolts. Very nearly falls over because his entire lower body is numb. He is saved from toppling over by quick and sure hands on his left shoulder and over the top of his right chest. He breaks eye contact with the icon and immediately starts to tear. In frustration more than anything else.

He will have to start over now. 

“Ah, child,” and it is Seteth, his voice so distinctive in its low, almost scratchy timber. “This is cruel.” 

Ferdinand whimpers. He unlocks his hands from behind his back to scrub at his eyes. He would move away from Seteth, but his legs have turned into hot tingling messes, and he is crying earnestly now. It is ridiculously embarrassing, but he can’t stop himself. He weeps on the floor, the second to the Archbishop holding him so very carefully. So very gently. 

It is all Ferdinand can do not to try to cling to Seteth and beg him never to let go. 

“Do not worry,” Seteth murmurs, and Ferdinand feels a linen handkerchief pressed into his hands. “You will not be punished further. You have my word of honor.”

_There is no honor here,_ Ferdinand thinks as he buries his face in the handkerchief and his hands.

Seteth shifts. He cups the back of Ferdinand’s head, his other hand drifting to hold Ferdinand’s right shoulder. The touch to his head is warm and firm, but there is a wash of cold upon Ferdinand’s shoulder. He jolts.

Looks up. 

Years later, Seteth who is also Cichol will smile at him and ask him to dance. It will bring Ferdinand sincere happiness. But there is no way for him to know this now.

Now, Seteth gazes at him. His hand rests over Beatrice’s mark, which has turned so cold it hurts. Ferdinand stares into Seteth’s eyes. Green with pupils slightly too oval to be human. 

For a moment, Ferdinand sees vast sky and wide ocean. 

Seteth blinks. Ferdinand shudders involuntarily. His head suddenly feels so light, caught in the sensation of flight. Seteth shifts his hand from his shoulder to lower on his upper arm, his other hand steadying Ferdinand’s head.

“I see,” he whispers.

His voice is older than time. Ferdinand feels himself tunneling. Fraying. Falling. 

_I see._

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

Ferdinand’s contacts in Derdriu are two tea merchants, Gabriel and Zachary, trading from Morfis and the master of runners for the Textile Guild. The latter were suggested by Claude’s mother, who wrote to Ferdinand a total of three times during the war. The tea merchants were Ferdinand’s own cultivation. 

He pays them all a visit in the later afternoon. Zachary has a large house in the western part of the city. He had married a well-known baker’s daughter during the war, and they have been eager to host their local ring for a private round of drinks for a while. Ferdinand knew of the party but had not intended to attend. It is a security issue and dangerous for everyone involved to come together in one place. 

The war is over, though, and he is in Derdriu. He borrows some informal dinner wear from Claude’s master of treasury, whose primary joy is local fashion and who is of similar height and build to Ferdinand. The master titters happily as he helps Ferdinand adjust the shirt stays.

“You should really have something more than riding clothes kept here,” he says as he putters around in a box of belts and sashes to disguise the awkward fit of the trousers. “You would be splendid in our winter wear, I am certain.” 

“I’m afraid I’m not much for winter,” Ferdinand laughs as he lets the master cheerfully test several different belts and a massive handful of sashes to find the perfect match. “They were only very rainy where I grew up. I find actual cold to be quite hard.” 

“I’ve only been over the mountains to Faerghus once when I was a much younger man,” the master nods, looping the winning belt around Ferdinand’s waist and tightening it securely. “I don’t think my old joints would forgive me such a shock now.” 

“You aren’t so terribly old,” Ferdinand teases.

The master of treasury eyes him, although his smile is very warm. He starts wrapping Ferdinand’s waist with the sash, careful and light.

“You truly are a gentle soul,” the master murmurs.

There is some surprise to the master’s voice. Ferdinand cannot blame him. Since Claude assumed his title, Ferdinand has been known to his House’s inner circle as his spymaster. Even without knowing who he is, most of House Riegan keep a firm distance from him. They dislike how he spars with Claude, Hilda, and Holst, and they dislike even more the common class of most of his associates. Claude is able to control his staff’s behaviour, but he has some need to assert his authority regarding their opinions. 

_We don’t do that in the Alliance,_ he can hear Claude arguing to such a suggestion. 

_You are their leader, and you may influence their opinions,_ Ferdinand imagines arguing back. 

_People have free will and free minds,_ Claude would point out. __

_ __You cannot govern people who do not agree with your ideals on fundamental levels!_ Ferdinand would despair. _ _

_ _This mental rehearsal is not helpful. _ _

_ _Ferdinand reflects upon these points as he walks towards Zachary’s home with a basket of grapes and cheese from the market at House Riegan’s western gate. He knows that primary reason Claude took him on all of the war’s campaigns is Ferdinand maintains a policy of not openly questioning Claude’s judgement. He could have chosen Leonie or Lorenz, who both have great riding and unique weapon competences, as cavalry masters, but he used Ferdinand as his primary right hand. Leonie is somewhat brasher in temperament and doesn’t get along with all of the combined forces. Lorenz’s personality and constant arguing is usually accepted as his primary detracting factors. _ _

_ _Ferdinand and Claude do have their disagreements, but Ferdinand generally does not need to argue with him in public. Aside from obvious closed door topics, Claude is rarely off the mark on the battlefield. He is not arrogant nor does he experience battle madness and other concerning lapses in personality. In many ways, he is perfect for his position and near flawless in the political arena. If it wasn’t for his sympathetic heart and dislike for expedient sacrifice, he would have done well in the Enbarr court. _ _

_ _“My lord!” Zachary exclaims when he answers his door, eyes going wide and mouth splitting into a smile as he ushers Ferdinand inside. “Oh, I’m so glad you were able to come!” _ _

_ _Ferdinand, attempting to banish his racing thoughts, concentrates on smiling. “Thank you for arranging this,” he says, handing over the basket; he notices the pop of shock in Zachary’s eyes at the amount of grapes. “My schedule only became free a couple hours ago, so my apologies for not sending a messenger.” _ _

_ _“No, please, no apologies,” Zachary says, recovering admirably from his shock and beginning to usher Ferdinand inside. “We are all through here—please, let me get you something to drink –”_ _

_ _The evening is very pleasant. It is a modest affair with the children of the merchants making an appearance to introduce themselves very politely and then promptly taking off with handfuls of grapes. Ferdinand smiles and shakes hands with everyone and has the opportunity to congratulate the master of runners on her recent promotion within the Textile Guild. It is easy, mild conversation, and Ferdinand leaves as the sun sets with an equally easy excuse. _ _

_ _“I have had a few very long days and am quite tired,” he says, shaking hands again with everyone at the door. “Thank you so much for a lovely evening.” _ _

_ _Things go askew exactly two minutes later as Ferdinand turns at the end of the street and sees Claude, dressed in informal evening clothes and hair covered with a hat, heading north with his back to Ferdinand. He is clearly walking towards what Ferdinand knows to be his favourite pub. _ _

_ _Ferdinand stands for a moment. He looks back in the direction Claude had come and ascertains he has no one watching over him. No guard following and no distracted Dimitri lingering by a shop window to catch up later. Ferdinand knows he hadn’t set any of his contacts to keep an eye on Claude outside of the House. He just left them all at Zachary’s house. _ _

_ _He hurries to catch up with Claude. Makes his footfalls heavier so that Claude turns around, always alert as he is to unusual noise. He blinks at Ferdinand’s approach, gaze sweeping over his borrowed clothes as Ferdinand draws into step with him._ _

_ _“Claude,” Ferdinand says, careful to keep his voice a little low so as not to be overheard, “I didn’t know you were going out. Didn’t Dimitri want to come?” _ _

_ _“Oh,” Claude says, and his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes, “I sent him off. I didn’t want him flying all the way to Fhirdiad in the dark. He has morning meetings with Gustave and Seteth.”_ _

_ __Wyverns can see better in the dark,_ Ferdinand wants to point out. _ _

_ _“That’s a shame,” Ferdinand says, and he offers his hand which Claude takes immediately for comfort. “Dimitri loves shopping with you.” _ _

_ _“He does, does he,” Claude says, his smile a bit wobbly. _ _

_ _They continue their progress towards the pub. Claude lets go of Ferdinand’s hand to point out a couple of shops, chattering about how Dimitri would enjoy each for different reasons. Ferdinand nods along and makes appropriate noises to keep Claude talking. Dimitri really does seem to quite enjoy window shopping, something that had taken Ferdinand aback because he certainly hadn’t back at the academy. It must be a habit he picked up in Almyra. _ _

_ _“Oh, I’m certain,” Claude says as they step into the pub, which is crowded but not too loud yet as the evening is still young. “The markets there are so much more colourful and full of items from all over the world. And the food! You would love it. You liked the food from the feast, right?”_ _

_ _“I did,” Ferdinand says, keeping his smile in place and in his eyes as Claude flags one of the bartenders for strong wine. “I particularly liked the baked spiced meat. I thought the pastry work made them look quite cute.” _ _

_ _“Those are even better fresh in the markets!” Claude beams as he takes the carafe and pours their cups. “I’m so glad you enjoyed those. I was worried—they do contain game birds.” _ _

_ _Ferdinand is glad that they move on to a toast immediately. Claude is, unfortunately, aware of some of the issues that Ferdinand has been having due to his unfortunate reaction to the pheasant at the victory celebration. Ferdinand feels the burn of embarrassment still around the whole incident. Lorenz’s overreaction had been bad enough when Ferdinand attempted to quietly extract himself from the high table. _ _

_ _They end up chattering about nonsense. Claude talks about the ingredients in Almyran celebratory dishes and describes at length as they finish the first carafe the process of preparing and roasting a goat for a wedding. Ferdinand, suspecting if he doesn’t start talking Claude might become maudlin about his courtship, talks about the traditional marriage spread in Adrestria._ _

_ _“I haven’t attended many weddings myself,” he says as he refills their cups from the new carafe, “but it is the responsibility of the higher House to provide the dessert table. We have great tiered cakes as centrepieces –”_ _

_ _“The cost of the sugar alone must be absurd,” Claude says, eyes wide and very focused. _ _

_ _“Yes,” Ferdinand says, taken aback at the intensity of Claude’s interest; he recovers by taking a deep sip of his cup. “But it is a once in a lifetime thing, and the larger and greater the cake, the more obvious the promise that the marriage will be long and stable. There is an art of creating sugar sculptures to accompany the cakes. I only saw those in Enbarr.” _ _

_ _“Sugar sculptures would melt in Derdriu summers,” Claude mutters, shaking his head before lifting his cup. “I love the idea! I will have cakes at my wedding!” _ _

_ __Are you drunk already,_ Ferdinand nearly asks before clinking their cups. _ _

_ __All he really wants is to be with Dimitri,_ Ferdinand realises as they drink the toast. _To never be separated again.__ _

_ _They drink, as they usually do, very heavily after that. This pub gets very loud and fairly rowdy in local songs. Ferdinand enjoys watching Claude and everyone else having fun. It isn’t the type of thing he ever thought he would enjoy, and he still isn’t entirely sure if he likes it or just like being around others. Claude drinks faster than Ferdinand, who tries his best in the absence of any of his associates or Claude’s guards from letting everything get too out of hand._ _

_ _The war isn’t over, even though they all have to act like it is. _ _

_ _A thought stirs in the back of Ferdinand’s brain as Claude fills his cup._ _

_ _“Claude.”_ _

_ _“Hmm,” he says as he refills his own cup to the brim._ _

_ _“Is Dimitri alright with –” and Ferdinand can’t think of a nice way to put what they’re currently doing into words so he settles for flapping his hands at Claude, their cups, and the largesse of the tavern limply._ _

_ _Claude, cup against his lips, swallows his mouthful. He doesn’t move the cup, eyeing Ferdinand with an expression between baffled and uncertain. Ferdinand lowers his hands. Wraps his right around his cup. _ _

_ _“I haven’t told him,” Claude says, finally lowering his cup; brows furrowed. “But I don’t think he’s the jealous type. I mean, if he was, it would be hypocritical—he likes sparring against you quite a lot, you know.” _ _

_ _Ferdinand opens his mouth. Closes it. He picks up his cup and takes a deep sip. Claude’s expression eases. He grins, picks up his own cup and drinks._ _

_ _They end up very drunk. Ferdinand floats along, arm slung around Claude’s shoulders as they return to House Riegan. The night patrol are not surprised, although Ferdinand senses some judgement from the guards at the gate. It is mild, though, as Claude is excessively cheerful and Ferdinand is numb to his own thoughts. Claude slurs badly when he is drunk, so the story he attempts to tell about his mother and an Almyran diplomat she dueled is difficult to follow as they trek up to their rooms._ _

_ _“Hey,” Ferdinand says as they get to the guest room that he’s staying in, “do you want me to get you to bed?”_ _

_ _Claude laughs, leaning on the door frame as Ferdinand stumbles into the room. “And have you sneak off and sleep in a servants passage somewhere?” he teases, slurring the _s_ sounds into the vowels. “Naw, I’m good! Besides, like, Dima’d probably actually be jealous.”_ _

_ _He laughs at himself, not looking entirely put off by the prospect. Ferdinand, aside from his loss of coordination, takes rather more drink than he’s had to lose his analytical capacity. He is uncomfortably aware that Claude and Dimitri enjoy rough play, and now he knows Claude enjoys spurring Dimitri on. Some of this understanding must show on his face because Claude’s eyes widen. He doesn’t blush, although Ferdinand isn’t sure if he’s the type to in the first place. _ _

_ _He also doesn’t apologise. Rather, a flash of his scheming nature lights his face, slightly muddled with drink._ _

_ _“Hey,” he says, leaning forward and a little lower, “Fer’nand –”_ _

_ _“No,” Ferdinand says, putting up his hands even though that nearly makes him tip over and sprawl on the floor. “We’re drunk. This isn’t something to talk about while drunk.” _ _

_ _Claude bursts out laughing. He slaps his left hand against his thigh before pushing himself into an upright position. He wobbles slightly before beaming and throwing Ferdinand a jerking thumbs up. Ferdinand does not have the heart to tell Claude that has a completely different meaning in this kind of situation in the former Adrestian Empire. _ _

_ _“I’ll talk to Dima!” he crows, very self-satisfied. “Thanks for being a pal.”_ _

_ _“Good night, Claude,” Ferdinand says, firmly and more than a little baffled, as Claude turns and makes his way towards the master chambers._ _

_ _Ferdinand listens to his footsteps fade before he lowers himself to his hands and knees on the floor. He crawls a few paces to grab hold of the door and shove it shut as quietly as possible. He spends a long moment with his hands pressed against the wood, waiting for his head to stop spinning, before shifting and making his progress still on his hands and knees to find his basin to dunk his head. Try and sober up._ _

_ _He knows he shouldn’t enable Claude like this. He shouldn’t enable himself like this. He isn’t even sure what exactly he is enabling. But this is better than leaving Claude alone. _ _

_ _Ferdinand, beginning at some point during the third year of the war, has suspected that Claude is depressed. He had become notably moody by then, prone to taking more of his meals alone or working over them. Personal communications when he was home in Derdriu all but disappeared. He stopped taking trips out into the town while in Gloucester and his eagerness for Ferdinand’s company to go drinking in Derdriu was uncomfortably recogniseable. Casually, it was easy to excuse such a social withdrawal with the war, but Claude prior had been anything but moody. He was still jovial company but the jocularity was replaced by pensiveness and poorly disguised longing. _ _

_ _Dimitri returning and the formalisation of their courtship has lifted the longing, replacing it with an aching sort of sadness and desperation. It is also uncomfortable because Ferdinand recognises this from Lorenz. Claude is keenly aware that something has gone integrally askew in Dimitri much as it has in Ferdinand. He doesn’t insult them by trying to fix it, but Claude is a sensitive person. It hurts him, knowing he cannot do anything concrete to help._ _

_ _Ferdinand, dousing his washcloth in the basin and using it to mop his face as he fumbles open his borrowed collar tie, feels sad and faintly nauseous. _ _

_ _He sits on the floor beneath the basin until the sun rises. _ _

_ _

_ _It is selfish, but Ferdinand does not want to continue like this. _ _

_ _He is exhausted. There is no way around this fact. Despite the atrocities of the war, at least it was a distraction. Now, even with all the work still be done, Ferdinand finds it increasingly difficult disguise how tired he is. He watches Claude and Lorenz, who are also struggling but so much more put together, with no small amount of envy. He finds himself, in moments of weakness, thinking of begging Dimitri to send him to battle the yearly invaders from Sreng, if only so he does not have to think. _ _

_ _It is, of course, weakness. Ferdinand is aware more battle and bloodshed will create more nightmares when he comes out of battle madness. He cannot live his life out chasing battle and the empty relief of the way combat consumes his mind and washes out his thoughts._ _

_ _What is more: it would be an insult to Dimitri to use him like that. Ferdinand knows that Dimitri would understand his request, and he would give him leave. A part of Dimitri, which must have been adored by Claude’s father, is the same type of monster that Ferdinand barely leashes within himself. It causes him just as much if not more pain than Ferdinand’s does. It would be cruel to appeal to Dimitri’s monster for his own selfish relief. _ _

_ _Ferdinand knows his problem is that he did not plan for after the war. Aside from aiming to reclaim Aegir, he had not thought much further. A small part of Ferdinand which he finds absolutely terrifying has to account for the possibility he did not fully believe he would survive the war. _ _

_ _Perhaps this is why he has always been so happy to see how his people have flourished in Gloucester and beyond. By the third year of the war, almost all of his citizens had settled into new lives. Ferdinand knows each of their names and the families they have developed for they all write him these life updates, often very fondly. Most have little reason to return to Aegir, especially with the orchards ruined and the land poisoned._ _

_ _The best way to bring his citizens back to Aegir would be to rebuild his House. This has loomed over Ferdinand just as equally as every other concern, but it is the main issue that his citizens ask of him._ _

_ _“My lord,” Isabella as well as several of his House staff who have taken up positions in House Gloucester began to ask in the fourth year of the war, “have you given any thought to marriage?” _ _

_ _“I do not have adequate means to be courting presently,” Ferdinand could say during the war._ _

_ _He does not have this excuse now. _ _

_ _For the war has made Ferdinand a very wealthy and powerful man. In the collapse of the Empire and with none of the other Adrestian nobility coming forward to claim the various treasuries, part of Ferdinand’s duty has been to tally the finances at the Alliance and Kingdom’s disposal. Claude and Dimitri gifted him with the substantial wealth contained in the Vestra accounts and recourse to all further funds held in Enbarr to deal with damages to Aegir land. Ferdinand effectively owns and controls all land and resources south of the former House Bergliez territory to the sea. _ _

_ _“It is only a matter of time before you must consider proposals,” Countess Gloucester told him the last time Ferdinand and her had private tea together. _ _

_ _“I don’t…” Ferdinand attempted before the threat of a stuttering pushed him into silence. _ _

_ _“You could delay should you push your mother’s claim,” the Countess said, unrelenting from her position propped up against a dozen pillows. “She was of a Bergliez branch –”_ _

_ _“I will not,” Ferdinand said, very loudly, before catching himself and bowing his head. “I –”_ _

_ _“Do not apologise,” the Countess snapped. “You are the Empire’s remains.” _ _

_ _She is right. He is the Empire’s remains. Ferdinand would not recommend his childhood, but it was an ideal example of an Adrestian noble’s upbringing. He was educated in the fine arts as much as he was in weapons and politics. He is able to ride, dance, and sing, and he is passable at parlour games and entertainment. What is more, he is known for his gallantry alongside Dimitri and Claude and as a trusted advisor and confidant of the Roundtable. Despite the state of his territory, Aegir is still attractive. Even without all of this, he carries the minor Crest of Cichol. _ _

_ _Sometimes, especially in the last weeks of the war and since, Ferdinand finds himself kneeling in his bedroom. He no longer goes to mass as he knows that the Goddess does not call to him. Perhaps she never did, just as Claude suspects the saints are earthly bodied in Rhea, Seteth, and Flayn. He kneels, not in prayer or contemplation, but because it is the only way to set up a shaving mirror to reflect in the dressing table’s mirror. _ _

_ _Without Hubert, who paid such close and careful attention during their academy days, this is the only way Ferdinand can see the entirety of his mark. Hubert had made tracking changes easy, describing what Ferdinand could not see. _ _

_ _“It seems to act like a pauldron,” he said._ _

_ _Ferdinand had the fascinating experience of watching Hubert scramble around naked to find a hand mirror and traveling shaving mirror. He held both up so that Ferdinand didn’t haven’t to twist his neck around to try and piece the image together. The scarring had once obscured Beatrice’s teeth marks, but these had moved to form an almost perfect circle around his shoulder. The scarring looked almost like a bird’s nest. _ _

_ _“I’ve been reading about pegasus marks,” Hubert continued as Ferdinand tried to reconcile how odd his own flesh looked to himself. “There is very little reliable information, since I imagine they don’t mark people with any sort of regularity. Most stories seem to imply a protective power.” _ _

_ _“I don’t think,” Ferdinand said, “Beatrice had any intention of protecting me.”_ _

_ _Hubert paused. Ferdinand realised belatedly that his words had come out far more bitter than he intended. He couldn’t take it back. A part of Ferdinand was bitter about the whole ordeal. About how his mother and Beatrice suffered and how little he could do about it. He always understood he was too young to have changed anything, but that didn’t make him feel any better. _ _

_ _Hubert leaned forward. Slowly. Deliberately. _ _

_ _He pressed a kiss, closed lipped, against Ferdinand’s cheek. _ _

_ _He didn’t say anything because there was nothing he could say. There was nothing that could change their reality and make them feel any better. They were children born to further their parents’ ambitions. They weren’t Edelgard, who took all the bitter knowledge and turned her gaze upon the future. Hubert was the shadow of her hands and the bleeding her heart. _ _

_ _Ferdinand understands how things fell apart. _ _

_ _He is the Empire’s remains._ _


	5. Chapter 5

**1180, Wyvern Moon**

The Goddess is silent. 

Ferdinand studies his hands as he listens to Rhea’s sermon. Her words float by his ears, oddly dissonant. He feels more than a little concerned about this. Until entering the Holy Mausoleum, Rhea’s voice itself had been a balm. A physical comfort much like Seteth’s hands had been so many years ago. Now, for a multitude of reasons, Ferdinand feels emptier for each service he attends. 

He wonders if this shows. In the rows in front of him, Marianne and Mercedes kneel in fervent prayer. Linhardt sits awkwardly far in the back with Caspar, and Lorenz sits in the row across from Ferdinand, his own head bowed and eyes closed. It’s difficult to tell if Lorenz is actually engaged in the sermon or if he is drawing upon noblesse oblige to fake it. Dimitri and Dedue sit two rows directly behind Ferdinand. While he cannot see them, he is fairly certain Dedue is off in his own world as he tends to be during mass. Ferdinand would be shocked if Dimitri is still awake. He seems to use service as a sleep aid. 

This turns out to be the case. Ferdinand stands up when mass is over and turns around to see Dedue nudging Dimitri awake. Dimitri jerks forward, lips parting before Dedue catches his elbow. Leans forward to murmur against Dimitri’s ear. Ferdinand pretends that he did not witness this as he walks by their row. Dimitri and Dedue have more than enough to worry about without additional embarrassment.

It is this distraction, however, that allows Linhardt and Caspar to catch Ferdinand on his way to look at the saint statues. Ferdinand, intending to kneel before Cichol until class, is easily cornered. 

“Ferdinand,” Caspar says, quiet for perhaps the first time in their acquaintance, “Lin and I wanna talk to you.”

“What about?” Ferdinand asks, still on one knee at the base of Cichol.

Linhardt and Caspar exchange looks. Linhardt, his face turning strained and sour, twists his left wrist. Forms his left hand into a cup. A symbol in the Enbarr court for exchanging secrets. 

Ferdinand cannot ignore this. 

“Not here,” he whispers, even though it is only them and the saint statues. 

They end up in Ferdinand’s room. It is a mess. Ferdinand kicks dirty tunics and socks under his bed and shoves his correspondence into his wardrobe before letting Linhardt and Caspar in. His bed isn’t made, and his morning wash basin is murky. He hadn’t even cleaned and closed his shaving razor. 

“My apologies for the state of things,” Ferdinand says after they come inside and Linhardt turns to shut the door. 

“What happened,” Linhardt says, noticing the large burn mark on the inside of the door. 

_I made Hubert get out,_ Ferdinand thinks numbly. 

“You wanted to talk?” Ferdinand asks instead.

Caspar and Linhardt exchange glances. Linhardt finishes shutting the door. He makes to turn the lock, but it’s partially melted. Ferdinand watches his fingers twitch before curling upon themselves. He turns back around, clearly reconsidering the whole situation. Caspar looks to him, uncertain at the change in atmosphere. 

“I didn’t know you could use Thunder and Fire,” Linhardt says, a little slowly. 

“I am not particularly talented in magic,” Ferdinand says, rather dryly. 

Linhardt’s expression clearly expresses his doubt. Caspar is clearly becoming nervous. Despite himself, Ferdinand feels his patience rapidly wearing thin. 

“I am going to be late for class,” Ferdinand says. 

Linhardt breathes in. Out. Caspar’s hands shift to his trousers. Shove deep in his pockets. 

“Are,” Linhardt starts, and there’s a waver; he clears his throat. “Will you fight when the war comes?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says.

He does not have to think to answer that. Byleth and Dimitri have already approached him about his placement in the defense formation. His battalion has been replenished, and Byleth gave him a new silver axe. Dimitri had looked at him for a long moment before nodding. Ferdinand isn’t sure what he saw. 

“I,” Linhardt starts, very soft, “will not.” 

Caspar’s lips turn thin. He is obviously clenching his fists in his pockets. He doesn’t look at either of them. He stares at the pile of dirty clothes under Ferdinand’s bed. 

Ferdinand feels cold. 

“Linhardt,” he says, and he starts forward only for Linhard to tense up; he steps back. “You cannot refuse orders.” 

“I haven’t been ordered to anything,” Linhardt says, but he’s looking down at the carpet which Ferdinand realises also has several burnt patches. “Even so, I will not kill anyone. I don’t like blood. I don’t… I, I—I would rather die.” 

“Lin,” Caspar whispers. 

“That is the truth,” Linhardt bites out. 

He lifts his gaze to meet Ferdinand. There is more life in his eyes than Ferdinand has ever seen there before. 

“I am happy to be a coward,” Linhardt says, hard and settled. 

_I don’t think that makes you a coward,_ Ferdinand thinks.

He doesn’t say anything. Linhardt and Caspar both stare at him, somewhat taken aback by his lack of response. Linhardt’s eyebrows draw together. Through the fire in his eyes, there is a spark of intuition. Caspar frowns. Confused and a little suspicious. 

Many years later, Ferdinand will come to understand this was when they all grew apart. 

“You,” Linhardt starts, slower but just as hard, “have chosen to fight against Edelgard, haven’t you?” 

“Yes,” Ferdinand says because he has. 

“This isn’t the first conversation you have had regarding this,” Linhardt says, and he doesn’t treat Ferdinand as an idiot by mentioning the burn marks. 

“No,” Ferdinand says because it is true.

Caspar scowls deeper, clearly disagreeing with this choice. His shoulders tense. Linhardt eyes Ferdinand as if this is the first time they have met. 

Perhaps it is. 

Linhardt breathes out. In.

“When you told me to be vigilant,” he says, and it is careful and formal, his gaze flicking over Ferdinand’s entire body until returning to his face. “I did not take you seriously.”

Ferdinand shifts. He takes care to keep his hands open and in view. Caspar and Linhardt both track the movement of his toes. The slight curl in his fingers.

A part of Ferdinand feels like he always knew it would come to this. Maybe not now, and definitely not like this, more like maybe years in the future when they would have inherited their Houses. They would have battled each other in court, and they would have chewed on each other’s resources with spies in each other’s affairs. This is the reality of the Adrestian nobility and its power struggles and plays. 

It is what Edelgard wants to change. Ferdinand agrees with so much of what Hubert explained, but he also saw the Flame Emperor. What Edelgard is willing to do. What she has already done. What she is willing to become and what she is willing to sacrifice. 

Ferdinand, selfishly, cannot believe in that. It is not good. It is not noble. 

This understanding does not give him resolve. It does not make him strong. Rather, Ferdinand simply recoils from what Edelgard and Hubert are willing to do. He cannot serve that. He also, because of who he has been to Hubert, cannot opt out.

“I must fight,” Ferdinand says, and he knows there is no way to make either Linhardt or Caspar understand. “But I do not hold any ill will towards either of you. We all must do what is right by our hearts.” 

“Hearts,” Caspar says, offended and disbelieving. 

“Then I hope you win,” Linhardt says, angry and desperate and harsh, “so we don’t have to speak again.” 

Caspar’s mouth is open. Ferdinand swallows. Linhardt blinks. Once. Twice. Harder. He turns. Opens the door. He lets himself out and disappears down the hall. 

For a moment, Caspar gawks at the open door. He glances back at Ferdinand, expression extremely complicated, before he turns without a word and runs to catch up with Linhardt. He doesn’t shout or call. Their footsteps fall into sync a few seconds later. 

Ferdinand breathes in. He crosses over to the door. He stands with his hand on it for a long moment, staring at the burn mark. The way it spread out. Unnatural.

He breathes out.

_I see_

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

Ferdinand departs Derdriu for Gloucester just before noon, Claude’s response to Linhardt tucked into his travel pack. It is an exquisite piece of writing, acknowledging Linhardt’s points and affirming his opinions. Claude extends an invitation for Linhardt to travel to either Fhirdiad or Derdriu to discuss terms with the stipulations that Linhardt come unarmed and be accompanied by selected guards. Among the guards will be a mage adequate to keep him in Silence. 

“You seem troubled, my lord,” Isabella says, riding at his left. 

“I am always troubled,” Ferdinand says, which makes her lips twitch in a smile. 

“Is it for your ears,” she says, an easy teasing to her tone, “for I am certain you can hear Lorenz from here.” 

“If only all of our hazards could be so predictable,” Ferdinand laughs.

He does have it coming. There had only been a short response regarding his extended stay in Derdriu from Count Gloucester. Lorenz’s lack of personal response either means he had too much to say to fit on parchment or the Count removed his input before sending the missive, deeming it extraneous. None of this will stop Lorenz from boxing Ferdinand’s ears as soon as he gets the chance. 

“My lord,” Isabella says, drawing Ferdinand out of his reverie to realise he’s been needlessly soothing Michelle, his mare; “Did you know that there are rumours you will be moving to Fhirdiad following Dimitri King’s coronation?” 

“I was aware,” Ferdinand says because his last communication of Sylvain had mentioned such rumours and gained him an invitation to go hunting in Gautier territory. “I have no intention of making any plans until after the coronation.” 

Isabella hums. She is the only person aside from Claude and Count Gloucester who know for certain that Ferdinand will offer Dimitri fealty. If Dimitri asks him then to move to Fhirdiad, then he will. Whatever orders he receives, he will follow. This is both the benefit and consequence of his choices. 

The last thing that Ferdinand wishes is for someone to get it into their head that he should rule Adrestria. It is a real concern. Right now, the power vacuum is massive, but the greater consequences are held at bay by how thoroughly the Empire was defeated. But this will not last forever, and Ferdinand is well-aware of his standing among the Adrestian Houses. 

There was an unkind joke in the Enbarr court that Aegir always looks to come out on top. 

They stop briefly at a border village between Riegan and Gloucester because neither Isabella nor Ferdinand had lunch before leaving. Isabella goes into the market, leaving Ferdinand to mind the horses. Isabella’s Dottie enjoys part of a carrot stub from Ferdinand’s pack, although Michelle eyes Ferdinand with a judgemental huff to have to share. 

“Don’t go complaining,” Ferdinand says, straightening after wiping his travel knife on the grass. “I’ve lost weight, so you don’t have to work as hard.” 

Michelle snorts, thankfully not directly into Ferdinand’s face for once. She was a temperamental foal, born not long before Ferdinand arrived in Gloucester. Ferdinand spent nearly a month convalescing following his arrival, a period of time he remembers less well than he wishes to admit. Claude was wintering in Gloucester, and Ferdinand is aware they spent a lot of time together along with Lorenz. 

“You are a keen rider,” Claude said one evening as Ferdinand’s energy levels improved and he found himself amiable to light parlour entertainment like cards. “Perhaps you would like to do a bit with a foal that’s been a bit of a hassle.” 

“It would be good for you,” Lorenz agreed, smiling as he dealt them new hands. “We can go down tomorrow morning, if you are feeling up to it.” 

Michelle has far too strong a will for anyone but an advanced rider. Ferdinand enjoys her spirit and how much trouble she gives his timid squire, Isabelle. She does not have her mother, Isabella’s dominant temperament, but she has her intelligence and is far more talented rider. Ferdinand has been thinking of recommending her for a pegasus knight once she finally finds it in herself to stand up to Michelle’s will. 

“My lord,” Isabella says, announcing her return with a quarter loaf of bread, strip jerky, and a bag of some sort of shelled and roasted nut, “you should pay better attention to your surroundings.” 

“I should, shouldn’t I,” Ferdinand murmurs, accepting the bread to tear in half. 

They ride the next two hours in relative silence. Ferdinand feels the effects of the night before keenly in the autumn warmth, and he finds himself, as the towers and walls of the House Gloucester come into view, somewhat regretting his actions. He could have convinced Claude to go back with him to House Riegan instead of spending the night at the pub. It wouldn’t have made Claude as happy as the night out did, but Claude would have simply perked up for some company. They didn’t have to go drinking. Ferdinand himself subconsciously wanted to blow off steam. 

“Isabella,” Ferdinand says as he hails the guards at the northern gate, “after you take my messages, see if you can find out about the state of House Varley.” 

“Yes, my lord,” Isabella says, leaning forward to extract his messages from his pack. 

Ferdinand watches her depart for the town before dismounting Michelle. He walks her across the lowered bridge, soothing his hand over her neck absently. The senior guard, Darlene, steps forward as Ferdinand reaches the gate, inclining his head and extending a hand for Michelle’s reign. 

“Welcome back, Duke Aegir,” she says, very mildly. “Count Gloucester would like you to join him for afternoon tea.” 

Based on the height of the sun, the Count will be taking tea sooner rather than later. Ferdinand smiles, forcing down the wail of embarrassment and exhaustion that wants to bubble up. 

“Thank you, Darlene,” he says, hoping none of that lapse shows on his face. 

If it did, she gives no indication. Ferdinand walks through the gate and then picks up his pace. He detours from the main entrance to hurry up the much faster path offered by the servant entrance to the courtyard to the conservatory and his room. Both are thankfully empty, so Ferdinand makes quick work of stripping out of his riding clothes and boots after shutting his bedroom door. 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror as he dashes across the room to his wardrobe. His hair is a right mess, and he has dark shadows under his eyes. Ferdinand tries to convince himself as he shoves his head into his wardrobe to find appropriate afternoon wear that he isn’t entirely unsalvageable. His face is a lost cause, but he has enough time to brush his hair. 

All of his good summer clothing is either dirty from travel or slightly too light in tone for the afternoon. Ferdinand settles for a white tunic and a darker brown vest for which he has matching trousers on hand. Both the vest and the trousers need to be sent to the tailors to be truly presentable, but Ferdinand forces himself not to dwell on this because if he does, he will not leave his room in time for tea. 

By the time he arrives in the master quarters, tea has been served. Count Gloucester and Lorenz are both there as Ferdinand is admitted by the chamber attendant. Ferdinand bows, extremely aware that while the Count’s lips are twitching into a smile, Lorenz’s expression is extraordinarily flat. 

“Good afternoon, Count Gloucester,” he says as he straightens, very aware his cheeks are flushed and hair only minimally under control. “Good afternoon, Lorenz. Thank you for your kindness to have me to tea.” 

“Of course, of course,” the Count says, very much amused now; he waves his hand to the empty chair. “Sit, please. We are having something a bit different—a ginger lemon herbal.” 

“Oh,” Ferdinand says, quite thrown as he cross the room and watches Lorenz stand to pour a cup, “that is rather unique.” 

“Good for the stomach,” the Count says as Ferdinand sits down, murmuring a thank you. “Sisi is very fond of it right now.”

Ferdinand smiles, picking up the cup and inhaling. “How is the Countess?” he asks as he examines the light yellow hue of the tea. 

“In good spirits,” the Count says as Ferdinand sips his tea. 

“She has been awake more often,” Lorenz says as Ferdinand swallows. “This mild weather seems to agree with her.”

“That is great to hear,” Ferdinand says, feeling very warm. “This is very pleasant, especially after traveling.” 

Lorenz eyes him, likely more than aware that Ferdinand isn’t feeling particularly well. The Count simply smiles, mild and encouraging. He is, despite his rapid physical decline, still very much a consummate politician. 

“Lorenz told me much of the treaty celebration,” he says, smoothly moving the conversation along before his son can escalate. “But I was wondering about your thoughts on Faerghus and Almyra. Dimitri was fostered for about three years there and does seem to have developed a taste of Almyran jewelry.”

Ferdinand sips his tea. He sets the cup down on the saucer and allows Lorenz to serve him one of the finger biscuits before responding. 

“Dimitri’s concerns are upon rebuilding the Kingdom first and foremost,” he says, running his forefinger along the curve of his cup’s handle. “We have been discussing separately some of the state of the surviving Adrestian Houses, and I believe he also has a good sense of how the Church of Seiros will affect affairs. Access to Almyran trade is essential right now, especially as winter approaches.”

“We will still have a very lean winter,” the Count murmurs. 

“Especially further south,” Ferdinand agrees because almost all of Adrestia is in ruins and plague is ravaging Enbarr currently even with the aid of healers headed by Manuela and Annette. “I believe Dimitri is as aware as Claude that we cannot turn away opportunity to stablise our resources.”

Lorenz frowns even as the Count nods gravely. “Our ability to treat the plague is not what it was with the loss of the Gronder fields,” he says Grounder land has always supplied most of Fòdlan’s healing herbs aside from regional specialties. “We will likely have issues anywhere refugees travel.”

Ferdinand nods. It would be possible at the moment to close the borders, but he knows that Claude and Dimitri would never agree to that. Ferdinand recoils from the sure death toll with that idea, so he suspects it is a conversation that will be explosive and brought up only after damage has been done. 

“Father,” Lorenz says, quiet and moderate, “perhaps we may speak of more pleasant things? You both have had long days.”

“Hm, yes,” the Count says, nodding sagely. “Tell me about the food at the feast. I hear there were gum sweets?”

The conversation is very light after that. Ferdinand feels exhaustion eating at his awareness, but it is no issue to continue speaking of different sweets and Dimitri’s Lucia. Both the Count and Lorenz are increasingly keen on the idea of keeping wyverns.

“That reminds me,” the Count says as Darlene unusually appears to begin cleaning up the tea, “Darlene asked if you have need of a second squire or even a message runner. Her eldest will be fourteen this Wyvern Moon and very able bodied.”

“He shows some promise with the axe,” Darlene says as she picks up the tea tray. “I am afraid he has no magical talent to speak of.” 

“That is quite alright,” Ferdinand says, smiling as he begins to stand with Lorenz. “When he is fourteen, I would be pleased to meet him to discuss his goals.” 

“Thank you very much, Duke Aegir,” Darlene says with a dip of her head before turning to help Count Lorenz stand from his chair. 

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz says, and Ferdinand has to put a great deal of effort to turn to face him with a mild expression. “May we speak privately?”

“Yes, of course,” Ferdinand says, feeling exhausted again. 

They go, somewhat unusually, to Lorenz’s chambers. They are closer to the master chambers and have a very pleasant view of the south. In the far distance, the Bridge is clearly viewable. During the war, Lorenz spent a lot of time looking out his own windows. Not just to observe the Bridge but to keep an eye out for anything in the mountains bordering Hrym. Ferdinand often joined him in the morning to discuss any changes to the horizon. 

“Here,” Lorenz says after clearing off his sitting table and pulling up a second chair. “Would you like anything more to eat? Father doesn’t have much of an appetite, so the tea tray was very light.” 

“No, thank you,” Ferdinand says, taking the seat that faces the windows. “What did you want to talk about?” 

Lorenz sits down. Crosses his legs. He takes a moment, watching himself fold his fingers together over his thigh. He’s wearing mage robes today, which means that he probably spent most of the day indoors in the workrooms downstairs. Close detail work like that tends to make Lorenz calmer. 

“I want to apologise for my behaviour at the feast,” he says, looking up and meeting Ferdinand’s gaze very contrite. “I shouldn’t have brought up your mark in such a public place, and it was very cruel of me to ask you about Hubert like that.”

Ferdinand, despite himself, finds his throat is tight. He takes a moment to clear it. Swallow. He glances at the window briefly to gather himself before turning back to Lorenz, who watches him with the same contriteness. 

“You needn’t have worried about being overheard,” he says because he had known they were alone; he had Isabella and his associates to take care of that during the feast. “I also do not mind talking about Hubert. He is dead after all.”

Lorenz frowns at him. He makes, however, a visible effort to hold his tongue and think over his words. Ferdinand is somewhat impressed. Mage and solitary work really does suit him best. Far more than politics and war. 

This realisation is why Ferdinand is not prepared for his next words.

“You are allowed to grieve him,” Lorenz says, very gently. 

“I know,” Ferdinand says; it’s too calm and too reasonable; he listens to his voice as if it belongs to someone else. “I killed him.” 

The silence is awkward. Lorenz stares at him. Eyes flicking back and forth. Not calculating or repulsed. Concerned and more than a little upset. 

Ferdinand stares back. He wonders if this is how Dimitri feels. The way some people tiptoe around him in social settings or treat him with arms length gentleness. Enemies rightfully fear him. Ferdinand doesn’t doubt some of the desecrated bodies of Imperial soldiers and massacred patrols were Dimitri’s own work. He has recognised the capacity for such things in Dimitri on the battlefield. For Ferdinand, knowing that Dimitri understands in a primal way what must be done for victory has always been a relief. 

“That,” Lorenz starts before he pauses; swallows. “That is not what I meant.” 

_Then what?_ Ferdinand wants to ask. 

_Of course I grieve him,_ Ferdinand wants to snap. _I know who he really was._

“I meant,” Lorenz says, and he blinks, clearly thinking very hard about each of his words, “you clearly love him still. And,” his voice raises slightly as Ferdinand’s mouth opens, “you killed him even so. It is not a contradiction.”

“He is dead,” Ferdinand says, abruptly very angry. 

The anger takes him aback. Lorenz blinks but looks less surprised than Ferdinand himself feels. Ferdinand looks away. Down. His fingers have fisted themselves against his thighs. Like he is being threatened. 

He is not being threatened. 

He is talking to Lorenz. 

He is not in danger.

Lorenz would never hurt him. 

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz starts, very gently. 

“I’m sorry,” Ferdinand says, standing up abruptly and bowing. “I must be exhausted from traveling. I think, if I may, I am going to bathe and go to bed. I would be amiable to continuing this conversation tomorrow?” 

Lorenz doesn’t respond. His feet don’t move. Ferdinand remains bowed, despite how desperately he wishes to be gone from the same room as Lorenz. This is House Gloucester. They wintered Ferdinand and gave refuge to his people. They will not accept his fealty and nor will Claude, so they do not command him. They may tire of him, however, and be rid of his presence. 

But he cannot have this conversation right now. Ferdinand is not sure if it is simply anger or if it is a manifestation of something else. Battle madness without a battle. Beatrice’s mark seeking revenge. 

He summoned Bolganone without consciously learning it upon Imperial forces. 

“Of course,” Lorenz says, and Ferdinand can hear the pain his voice even so soft. “I will have dinner sent to your rooms. Please try to actually sleep, Ferdinand.” 

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, straightening but not lifting his gaze. “You are very kind.” 

He tries his best not to run as he makes his retreat. 

**1180, Wyvern Moon**

In Ferdinand’s wardrobe, where he stuffed his correspondence:

There were poems. Complex sonnets written in the old Enbarr style favoured prior to the new lyric style and which Ferdinand adored. They spoke of two lovers, forever divided like the sun from the moon but entwined in function and fate like the leaves to the roots. The most beautiful of the sonnets described a world where these fates met and clashed to blossom and bloom in a new, fragrant world. 

Alone in his room as everyone else was either in class or otherwise occupied, Ferdinand opened his wardrobe. He took out the parchment. Fourteen pieces. Turned. He knelt on his burn-marked carpet. Folded each parchment in half. Quarters. 

Ferdinand cupped the folded poem in his hands. Breathed in. 

Out. 

Two hours later, all that remained of Hubert’s courting poetry was ash.


	6. Chapter 6

**1181, Pegasus Moon**

There is snowfall in Gloucester. 

Ferdinand watches it fall against the window ledge. The edges of frost on the glass. The cloud cover is heavy, and there is only the pale light filtering through to the ground. He watches a couple of carts bearing what looks like wine barrels pass through the gate. The northern, he guesses. He knows from the last couple of days that his room does not face east or west. He does not think wine deliveries would be coming from the south unless the House is maintaining Empire ties. Wintering Claude, rightful inheritor of House Riegan, would be a contradiction.

A light knock. 

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz’s voice filters through the closed door. “Are you awake? Claude and I are here.” 

Ferdinand turns his head. Just that motion feels like an effort. He gives himself a moment to breathe. Blink.

“Yes,” he says, raising his voice enough to hopefully be heard. “Please, come in.”

Lorenz opens the door. He has a tray of what looks like soup and bread and a folding tray tucked under his left arm. Claude comes in behind him, dressed in an out of doors coat. He makes a soft huff of relief at the temperature of Ferdinand’s room, reaching up to undo the fur collar. 

“It’s so cold!” he exclaims in lieu of a greeting. “No idea how anyone puts up with all of this.”

Lorenz rolls his eyes as he sets the tray at the foot of Ferdinand’s bed. He unfolds the tray, leaning across Ferdinand to set it neatly over his lap. Ferdinand’s extremely sluggish brain realises the food is for him. 

“Oh,” he says, feeling faintly at a loss, “is it lunch already?” 

“It is,” Lorenz says, shifting to move the soup and bread to the folding tray; Claude, Ferdinand only notices now, has a water carafe that he’s turned to pour into the kettle over the hearth. “Did you sleep well?”

Ferdinand opens his mouth before realising he isn’t sure. He shuts it as Lorenz arranges the spoon and napkin. Claude puts the lid back on the kettle. 

“I slept through breakfast?” 

“Yes,” Lorenz says, standing up and smiling encouragingly, “but that is of little issue. Eat up. This is carrot and turnips.” 

Ferdinand feels awkward but does as he’s told. Claude and Lorenz start arguing mildly about the kettle, but Ferdinand finds it difficult to follow both their conversation and to eat the soup with the spoon. He settles for tearing off a small chunk from the bread and soaking it in the soup so he has a target to scoop. 

A part of Ferdinand is very embarrassed as this is very improper. The other part is aware that he is recovering from wounds, starvation, and at least a week’s fever. Being rather out of it is to be expected. 

“Here,” Lorenz says, dragging Ferdinand out of his mindless contemplation of his bread as he sets down a cup of hot water on the tray.

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, faintly alarmed to have lost the thread of action so baldly. “I am sorry to ask, but how long was I asleep?”

“Two days,” Claude says, even as Lorenz gives him an evil eye. “What? It’s a valid question.”

Ferdinand ignores whatever Lorenz argues back. He sets his bread down. Picks up the linen napkin. It feels unnaturally heavy to his hand. He concentrates on wiping his mouth. 

“I do apologise,” he says, looking up again to find Claude and Lorenz’s attention swinging back to him. “I feel like all I’ve done since coming here is ask favours and pass out.” 

“You’ve gone a great deal more than that,” Claude says, smiling somewhat sadly. “Nathaniel and Isabella said they would be back by this afternoon, so you haven’t missed anything.”

_Yes, I have,_ Ferdinand wants to protest, but the effort would probably make him ill, so he doesn’t say anything. 

Lorenz shakes his head, clearly disapproving of absolutely everything as he moves to make a pot of tea now that the water is off the boil. 

“I will pretend,” he says although simply thinking of Lorenz pretending anything successfully makes both Ferdinand and Claude boggle at him, “that I don’t know what either of you are talking about and, for the sake of our shared sanity, that the blasphemy committed did not occur.” 

“I didn’t commit blasphemy,” Ferdinand says before Claude can recover from his righteous shock.

Lorenz doesn’t look at either of them as he measure tea into the pot. “I am actually trained as a mage,” he says, irritated and more than faintly offended. “You used your Crest to do some sort of magic, didn’t you? It’d be obvious to any elementary mage. You’re covered in the residue. That is blasphemy in the eyes of the Goddess.” 

“Lorenz,” Claude says, clearly exasperated.

“I didn’t commit blasphemy,” Ferdinand says again, which makes them both look at him, Claude with a raised eyebrow and Lorenz with a disapproving scowl. “I did not evoke the Goddess to summon my Crest.” 

Lorenz’s face freezes. Claude’s brows draw together. He starts to open his mouth, but Lorenz beats him to it. 

“You idiot,” Lorenz says, very upset.

He sets down the tea scoop. Turns. Ferdinand watches him cross the room, open the bedroom door, and slams it shut behind himself. Claude, completely taken aback for the first time in Ferdinand’s memory, gawks at the door. When he turns back to Ferdinand, he looks as gobsmacked as Ferdinand wishes he felt. 

“Whatever is he on about?” he asks before he blinks; his brow furrows again; “Is this about that ceremony you did with Nathaniel and the others?” 

Ferdinand eyes him. Claude is perhaps the most intelligent of all their academy cohort, but his theology and Crest-specific magical knowledge is awful. Ferdinand himself is not an expert. He has only faint memory of his father’s singular lesson on how to summon their Crest, and it wasn’t as if his father actually demonstrated the process. He remembers better playing along with Hubert, who was childishly enthusiastic that Ferdinand could summon his Crest.

“You know most nobles are unable to do this,” he thrilled as Ferdinand hoisted it between them and consequently lighted their nakedness. “They lack the endurance.”

“I do not lack in endurance,” Ferdinand joked as Hubert admired him through the light.

“That you do not,” Hubert laughed, eyes bright and smile uncontrolled.

“Ferdinand?” Claude asks, bringing him back to the present.

Ferdinand blinks. Swallows. He looks back to his cooling soup. The spoon. The napkin still between his fingers.

He breathes out. 

“It is a theological issue,” Ferdinand says, and he is pleased how calm and reasonable he sounds to his own ears. 

“To do with Crests,” Claude says, very carefully. 

“Not exactly,” Ferdinand says.

Claude was there. 

He bore witness. 

He deserves to understand. 

Slowly, Ferdinand sets the napkin down. Claude watches him. Flat and remote and assessing. 

Ferdinand breathes in. 

Outside, the snow falls in quiet flurries. 

“Do you know what it means to accept an oath of fealty?” 

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

Ferdinand wakes up. 

It is dark. The moon is new and the cloud cover is heavy. He had drawn his window covers before getting into bed, but it is rare that he sleeps soundly enough that his evening hearth ever goes completely out. The room is cold, and the whole House is quiet. 

Disorientated, he sits up in bed. He rolls over, groping around for his house coat. He pulls it on as he gets out of bed, shoving his feet into short slippers. He feels his way around in the dark to the door. Conservatory. Through the servants door to connect quickly to the toilet.

The night is very chilly. Ferdinand cleans up and shuffles himself further down the passage. Finds the kitchens.

“Hello,” he says so as not to shock the baking staff.

“Duke Aegir?” the head baker, Callum, calls. “What’s going on? Do you need to depart? Do you need kit?”

“No, thankfully,” Ferdinand says, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. “I’m just hungry.”

“Get over here,” Callum calls as an apprentice makes a noise of agreement.

Ferdinand shuffles around a large bag of flour to where Callum and his gaggle of apprentices are scarfing breakfast as the ovens heat. He accepts a misshapen and faintly stale dinner roll that wasn’t presentable for the previous evening table. A lump of butter is already shoved inside of it. For a long moment, they all stand next to the ovens, chewing.

“Couldn’t sleep?” Callum asks after he shoves the last of his rejected dinner roll into his mouth. 

Ferdinand chew vigorously. Swallows.

“I did and then didn’t,” he says because that is the only way to tell the truth. “Better than usual, though.”

“That’s good to hear,” Callum says before moving to check the ovens.

Ferdinand finishes his roll. He backs out of the kitchen after pouring himself a cup of hot water from the kettles. He walks back up the passage to the conservatory and his room, feeling moderately better. He must have actually slept despite that truly absurd dream of the past.

There isn’t much point to trying to go back to sleep. Ferdinand sips his water before setting the cup on his desk. He eyes the shadow of his hearth in the dark before lighting it with Fire. There’s more than enough wood to take the kindling. He stands for a moment, considering the sparks, before turning to his desk.

There is a large stack of correspondence. Ferdinand picks it up and moves to sit on the rug next to the hearth. The top three are reports from Isabella, summarizing the activity of the past three days. There is a sealed letter from Felix, likely regarding Dimitri’s upcoming coronation. There is also a sealed package that looks to be from Kupala but is obviously for Ferdinand’s purposes from Almyra.

Ferdinand pulls the package out. It has weight. He leans over and grabs the knife he keeps for shredding kindling. Uses it to cut the seal and twine. He unfolds parchment to reveal vellum. He fingers the edges, a sense of trepidation in his gut.

Ferdinand stops.

There is a hunting knife bound in dragonhide in his lap.

Ferdinand stares at it. His hands, still holding the edges of the vellum, are still. He eyes the dragonhide. The way the scales shine and ripple the firelight.

They only kill dragons in Alymra for one reason:

To bind souls before the gods. 

He wonders how quickly he can message Claude in Derdriu. If he should message Dimitri in Fhirdiad first. If he should scream and wake the House and make someone else take care of this. He could wake Lorenz to get Count Gloucester who is the closest to an occult advisor as they have. 

Ferdinand swallows down his scream. He shifts his legs. Stands.

He goes to find Lorenz.

**1181, Pegasus Moon**

Nathaniel and Isabella kneel at his feet. 

Ferdinand stares at the crown of their heads. Nathaniel has lighter hair than Isabella, who has broader shoulders. Behind them, the blacksmiths Horatio and Sandra also kneel, Horatio’s face freshly healed from a sword strike. 

Ferdinand breathes in. Out.

The Crest of Cichol shines in the Thunder between his extended hands. 

“My lord,” Isabella says, raising her hands; the others follow suit. “I believe in your will justice will be done. I offer my hands and heart. My body and soul.”

Claude stands by the hearth. Ferdinand does not look directly at him. He wonders what Claude sees. If he find this abhorrent. 

“I accept your offer,” Ferdinand says.

His Crest pulses. It hurts. He grits his teeth against the tearing sensation as the Thunder warps. Against the Fire that burns his fingers as his vassals take his hands. The scent of burning is nauseating. It makes his eyes water. 

“I promise,” he says, chokes, roars, “to honour your oath. 

“I promise to make good.” 

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

Ferdinand has to use the main halls while carrying the dagger on the vellum. He doesn’t dare leave it unattended, even though he doesn’t know what it could do. Especially because he doesn’t know what it can do. 

Lorenz’s reception room doors are shut. Ferdinand eyes them before moving awkwardly to the side and wrapping his right hand’s ring and little finger on the bell pull. He tugs it. Once. 

There is a responding chime and almost immediate thud. 

“Yes!” Lorenz barks, audibly alarmed. “Yes, come in!”

“I have my hands full,” Ferdinand calls. “Open the door, please?”

“Ferdinand?” Lorenz shouts and there’s a split second before he yanks the doors open, palm cupping a bloom of Fire. “Wha—What the _fuck_!”

“Let me in,” Ferdinand says even as Lorenz steps back to give him space to enter.

“Where did you get that?” Lorenz asks as he kicks his doors shut and rushes in only his nightshirt to throw his Fire into the hearth, which sputters to life as if in surprise. “That’s dragonhide!”

“I know it’s dragonhide!” Ferdinand says, perhaps more heated than need be. “It’s from Almyra –”

“Goddess’s blood,” Lorenz breathes and he rushes over to his work chest. “You haven’t touched it, have you?”

“No,” Ferdinand says, trying not to be annoyed. “I don’t know if it’s meant for Dimitri or Claude.”

Lorenz makes a moaning noise. He rummages around in the chest before pulling out a roll of –

“What the fuck, Lorenz,” Ferdinand says before he can stop himself.

“Shut up,” Lorenz snaps as he uses a dragonhide jerkin to cover his hands. “This was Gloucester’s. Was that what it came packaged in? Is that goatskin?”

“This is pegasus skin,” Ferdinand says, which he only recognised by virtue of it being the only material he has ever received Almyra communications directly. 

Lorenz’s jaw goes momentarily slack before he shuts it with a click. He holds his tongue as he changes course and points through the jerkin to his card table.

“Put it there,” he says, faintly hysterical. “Goddess bless your mark, you could be possessed or worse without it.”

“What,” Ferdinand says despite himself as he moves to place the dagger down.

“You don’t feel it?” Lorenz asks, louder and more hysterical. 

“It doesn’t act like a Crest,” Ferdinand sighs, letting the vellum go and shaking out his hands out of habit. “I don’t have any feeling in that shoulder.”

“A Pegasus mark protects from possession!” Lorenz screams, livid as Ferdinand turns back to him. “Whoever sent you this knows you are marked!”

“I guessed that!” Ferdinand shoots back, quieter because he’s feeling increasingly, alarmingly tearful. “It is a secure method –”

“Ferdinand!” Lorenz cries, flapping the dragonhide in hysterical frustration. “Do you even _listen_ to yourself?” 

“I don’t have a choice!” Ferdinand says, very thinly because it’s difficult to speak with how badly he wants to cry. “What can I do—reject Claude’s mother?”

“This is from Claude’s lady mother?” Lorenz squawks, so irate now that he’s the same colour as his hair. 

“I’m not happy about it,” Ferdinand says, quieter still but feeling even more hysterical, “but it’s not like she’s killing pegasi unnecessarily –”

“Ferdinand!” Lorenz shrieks, eyes huge. “How many times has this happened?” 

“That doesn’t matter!” Ferdinand says but barely because he has started crying. “This is important!”

“Obviously,” Lorenz says, moderately less loud but no less hysterical. “It does matter –”

“Are you going to help me,” Ferdinand chokes, “or are you going to yell at me?”

“No,” Lorenz says, and Ferdinand can hear how much he is straining to make his voice level. “I will not yell at you. Right now. Oh –”

Ferdinand is crying in earnest now. It is incredibly frustrating. He hiccups on his sobs. Swipes angrily at his nose. Eyes.

Across the room, Lorenz sighs. He shuffles around briefly before moving to take Ferdinand’s left elbow. He presses a linen napkin in to his hand.

“Here, stop standing here like a—hm…” he says, attempting valiantly to be reasonable. “Let us sit down. Come here…”

They end up sitting together on Lorenz’s fainting couch. Ferdinand is not entirely sure why Lorenz has a fainting couch. It has always been a fixture of his reception room even before he began taking healing duties seriously during the second year of the war. It is comfortable, although sitting on it and crying does make Ferdinand feel oddly more self-conscious. 

He thinks about the hazy memory of coming across Claude crying in the scullery. How embarrassed he had been to be discovered. How embarrassing it was for Ferdinand to be so drunk. The fight they overheard between Hilda and Holst. 

Claude weeping over Dimitri. 

The marriage proposal. 

Fealty. 

_Claude, you asked me what I want when the war is over_

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz murmurs. 

_I lied_

A touch. Soft and gentle. Fingertips above his ear. Against his skull.

_Please_

“You can’t keep on like this,” Lorenz whispers. 

_Forgive me_

Fingers. Threading. Against his skull. Soft. Repetitive. Soothing.

_I only thought I wanted to go home_

“I know,” Lorenz whispers as he lets Ferdinand lean into him, tucks his arm around Ferdinand’s waist, “there are many other things we need to do, and you have to do these, these awful things, but I’m sorry, I’m selfish—I hate this.” 

_I just don’t want to be alone_

“I hate seeing you reduce yourself to parts.” 

But what else is there to do? Ferdinand doesn’t ask. Lorenz doesn’t tell him. Neither of them have answers. 

So Lorenz threads his fingers through Ferdinand’s hair, and Ferdinand clings to Lorenz and hides his face against his neck. 

Ferdinand is not sure how long they spend like this. It is not, in fact, the first time something like this has happened. In the course of the war, Ferdinand’s emotions were always his weakest point. He cared too much, and Hubert knew this. Dorothea did as well, and the operas she directed in Enbarr were themselves an extension of that knowledge. Ferdinand knows he cannot put off visiting her in her confinement much longer. Not with Linhardt’s situation coming to a head. 

Despite himself, Ferdinand understands he is not strong enough to weather this alone. 

Lorenz is strong. Not just for riding but to heal. Since his parents’ decline, he serves as the primary healer for the whole House Gloucester. Healing arts take faith. Endurance. 

Ferdinand has great endurance. He never had a choice to be any different. Beatrice marked him for her revenge. His mother promised him war. 

He lost his faith a long time ago. 

“Ferdinand,” Lorenz says, a long sigh against the shell of his ear, “I want to help, but I don’t know what you want me to do.” 

With great effort, Ferdinand shifts. Draws back. Lorenz’s hand remains in his hair. His arm around his waist. He looks at Lorenz in the thin firelight. The shine in his eyes. His lips are chapped. 

He is warm and solid and here.

**1181, Pegasus Moon**

Claude sits on the end of Ferdinand’s bed. He looks at his hands. The Riegan signet ring. 

Ferdinand watches him over his abandoned lunch tray. 

“In Almyra,” Claude says, very softly, “sworn souls are bound with dragonhide ties. So it is not so different to how you accepted their fealty.”

“No,” Ferdinand says, “it is not so different.” 

“It is not the same as love,” Claude says, more to himself than to Ferdinand. 

“No,” Ferdinand says because he agrees. 

For love is selfish.

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

Ferdinand loves Lorenz so much. 

“You are helping,” he says because he is selfish, too.

He curls himself into Lorenz. Presses his palms flat over his chest. Heart.

Lorenz breathes. 

Out. In. 

He holds Ferdinand tight.

“This is enough.”


	7. Chapter 7

**1185, Horsebow Moon**

The sun is blocked by cloud cover. 

Ferdinand watches its pale progress as he makes a round of House Gloucester’s borders on Michelle. He thinks about the letters that he sent off to Claude and Dimitri. He wonders if Claude slept the night before. If the weather, already quickly cooling in this part of Fódlan, is moderate in Fhirdiad. Back in their academy days, Dimitri had preferred the chill. Ferdinand wonders if he is the same after wintering in Almyra. 

Michelle snorts and shakes her head. Ferdinand clicks his tongue. 

“Just because my mind is wandering doesn’t mean you can act up,” he says, turning her back towards the stables. “No treats for bad behaviour.” 

She snorts again but does not act up further. Ferdinand glances up at the sky again before dismounting. He hopes it does not rain. He suspects Dimitri will fly in before nightfall and he never wears enough protective clothing. This gives Claude no small level of stress. Lorenz has the same opinion about Ferdinand’s relationship with mail. 

Ferdinand unsaddles Michelle. He wonders, as he hangs up the seat, how much longer they have until they must wear gear again. 

Those Who Slither In The Dark will most likely move near to Dimitri’s coronation. They are running out on time. 

They cannot discount any resources, no matter how suboptimal they are.

This is why Ferdinand meets Lorenz at the entrance to House Gloucester’s prison. Lorenz’s entire being communicates how little he likes the situation. He does not, quite admirably, do more than look over Ferdinand in a manner that is slightly rude and utterly judgemental. 

“I do not ask your approval,” Ferdinand says as Lorenz signals the guard to open the main door and give Ferdinand the cell keys. 

“I would never give it,” Lorenz says even as he steps aside and snaps his fingers to light the torches down the passage. “She’s the door on the far right.” 

“Thank you,” Ferdinand says, hoping it doesn’t come off ironic. 

The prison itself is simple with its singular entrance and staircase down to the cells. It is, similar to Kingdom prisons, built mostly underground. Most of the cells prior to the war were repurposed as storage. Holding prisoners for long periods of time in the Alliance is generally uncommon, and long-term political prisoners are generally confined to their own homes. 

Dorothea, for lack of a better solution, has been forced to remain in House Gloucester’s underground prison. She refuses to cooperate with interrogation or even be civil in simple interactions. The lack of natural sunlight has done terrible things to her skin. Her eyes are too bright. She has proven untrustworthy to be taken above ground for more than an hour a day, and the perpetual Silence that Count Gloucester has her in likely wears her down further. Her refusal of most meals also hasn’t done her any favours.

She lifts her head from her lap as Ferdinand comes to stand in the opened door. For a moment, he sees a flash of surprise. It is, after all, the first time that he has seen her in five years. When she was captured in Fort Merceus, he had been elsewhere with Ignatz and Raphael. There was no valid reason for him to visit her since, and the entirety of House Gloucester as well as Claude would have disapproved of Ferdinand making a social call to their singular political prisoner.

It is not, Ferdinand is growing to understand, that they think him disloyal. It is more they are concerned with his good health. 

_They are good people,_ Ferdinand thinks, and it makes him smile. 

Dorothea glares at him across the cell. 

“Ferdie,” she bites out. 

Her voice is the same. Strong and sure and confident. Ferdinand remembers kneeling before the statue of Saint Cichol and listening to her singing with Manuela. He would shut his eyes and let their song and laughter soothe his heart. These are some of his best memories from when those academy days. 

“I was wondering when you would visit.”

Ferdinand glances away. To Lorenz, who stands with the afternoon guard at the main entrance. He could send the guard away, but Lorenz is not about to leave, so it’s pointless. 

_I wish that we didn’t have to be like this_

When he looks back, Dorothea is eyeing him. Sizing him up. Down. Her fingers, fisted on her lap over her skirts, do not loosen. 

Her clothes are fresh, which is a relief to see. She has not refused this hospitality. 

“You don’t look so hot, Ferdie,” she observes; she smiles, more than a little cruel. “You couldn’t catch a funeral singer with eye bags like those.” 

“I’m not on the market,” Ferdinand says because he isn’t, and he doesn’t want this turning into a mockery of their old teasing. “I am here to talk about your situation.” 

“I’m not on the market,” Dorothea snarls back, shoulders tensing and the bright light of _fight_ blooming in her eyes. “I will rot down here than be a traitor grasping at imagined mercy.” 

Ferdinand nods. Not because he understands because he doesn’t. There are many things that Ferdinand has come to understand and stomach through the years, but he has never chosen death. It is not his luxury. He holds the hands and hearts of those who are pledged to him. He commands their bodies and souls. He must honor their oaths. He must see justice done.

This is what it means to be noble and good. 

He is not a traitor. He took up arms at Garreg Mach by Byleth and Dimitri’s request. The House Aegir was not requested of anything before the razing. If anything, Edelgard and all those who followed her betrayed him and the citizens of Aegir the moment the first spark was pressed to the land of Aegir. The only death that day they do not own is his father’s. Ferdinand knows that burden is not his to bear. 

He still feels like throwing up. 

“I am not going to insult you,” Ferdinand says, and it is as empty and calm as he does not feel, “but if you truly hate us so, you would have figured out how to die in a much less contrived way than this.” 

That is not what she was expecting. Ferdinand watches how her eyes flicker. The fire banking. Simmering. He knows she must feel it, alive and sparking, beneath the Silence. Most mages live and breathe their magic. To be cut off from it is like losing a limb or worse. 

If Beatrice had not marked him, Ferdinand wonders if he could be able to feel his magic, too.

“The Adrestian Empire is no more,” Ferdinand says, both to her and to himself. “And we live. The Church would argue this is penance, but we both know that is an untruth. The Goddess and the saints do not care about our suffering any more than they do our joy. They are empty icons, earthly in their expressions. I do not disagree with this assessment. Rather, I agree very much. Surely Hubert shared such opinions with you.” 

Dorothea’s fingers tighten. Ferdinand looks at the whites of her knuckles. Her nails must be cutting her palms. 

When Manuela reported that Dorothea and Hubert were creating operas about the follies of the Goddess, Ferdinand had to stop the progress of her verbal report to laugh hysterically. Even if Hubert never told Dorothea why it had to be opera, why there had to be a noble male lead, why Hubert of all people suddenly had deep personal opinions about the opera and theology:

Manuela figured it out. Dorothea would have, too.

“You killed him,” she observes without any of the venom from before, “didn’t you.”

“I did,” Ferdinand says because it’s true. 

She stares at him. Not judging. Assessing. Something shifts in her face. It reminds Ferdinand of Edelgard in the rare moments when she was caught off-guard. That flash of softness and sincerity mired beneath ice. 

It is the expression she wore before she died.

“Ferdie,” Dorothea says, and it is not cruel; it is plaintive, “he loved you.”

Ferdinand feels his face shift. Warp. 

Dorothea stiffens. Tilts her chin. 

She doesn’t look away. She knows what she is dealing with now. 

“I know,” Ferdinand says. 

The veneer is slipping, melting, lost. 

This is who he is fated to be. This is, just as much as everything else, his strength. 

Upon Beatrice’s back, his mother promised him war among a host of many colours.

He thinks of Linhardt pledging his cowardice in the face of war. 

_He always was the most intelligent of us,_ Ferdinand thinks, so very sad.

“Ferdie,” Dorothea says, and it is cautious, careful; she knows she speaks with a beast. “He considered you his greatest regret.” 

Ferdinand thinks of Claude. Of the set of his jaw. The way he looks to the skies and the horizon. He thinks of how Claude could have run away and never had to go to war. Instead, he bought Dimitri and Dedue passage, and he wintered in Gloucester where he offered Ferdinand his hand. How he and Lorenz pulled Ferdinand up and gave him a horse to help bear his burdens and helped him walk in the fresh air and the sun.

“As he is mine,” Ferdinand says because that is also true. 

“Then,” Dorothea argues, drawing her spine straight and her shoulders back, “you must see: I cannot abandon Edie. Especially in death.” 

_I see_

“Edelgard was many things,” Ferdinand says, soft but ungentle because no one in Adrestia grew with gentleness, “but she would not be so cruel.” 

Dorothea stares at him. It is like they are meeting for the first time. She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. 

There is no redemption for a beast. 

But Ferdinand is not a beast. No more than Dimitri is. The things that make him beastly are the same things that hold Dorothea in the cell and keep her in Silence:

They chose their sides based on love. 

“Think about living,” Ferdinand says. “That is all I came to ask.” 

He bows. Turns. Lorenz and the guard wince at whatever expression lingers on his face. 

A part of Ferdinand is screaming. It sounds distant to his own ears. 

“Sorry that got a bit unpleasant,” he says as he comes to them in the entrance way. 

“Unpleasant,” Lorenz says, his entire face scrunching up; the guard is looking anywhere but Ferdinand’s face. “Ferdinand –”

He smiles. 

Lorenz stops. 

Ferdinand lifts his hand. Palm up. 

Lorenz and the guard stare. At his palm. At his face. Uncomprehending. 

The Alliance tries not to keep secrets. 

Ferdinand breathes in.

“Yes,” he says; he drops his hand; breathes out; he looks to the guard. “Please lock her cell again. Honor her requests, should they be reasonable.” 

“Yes, Duke Aegir,” the guard says.

Ferdinand steps aside so the guard can go down the stairs. He looks up. The clouded sky. 

“Lorenz,” he says to a dark swatch of cloud, moving like soggy bread across the sky, “will you walk with me?” 

It is raining by the time they settle in the conservatory. Not heavily but enough that it will make traveling cold and more than a little irritating. Dimitri and Claude are unlikely to complain, though. There are too many other issues to which they must attend. 

Meanwhile, Ferdinand makes tea. Lorenz sits in the chaise longue adjacent to the table. He watches Ferdinand measure bergamot. He doesn’t protest how Ferdinand removes the kettle from the fire with his bare hands. They are both aware that the heat does not bother Ferdinand more than it does any other mage. 

It is only after they are both seated on the chaise that Lorenz breaks his silence. 

“When these affairs are done,” he says, and his tone is strained and hurt but the opposite of anger entirely, “I want you to quit espionage.” 

Ferdinand looks into his tea. There are only a few tiny fragments of the leaves floating in the light brown-orange. The scent is pleasant and warm. 

“I would like to,” Ferdinand says because that is the truth, “but I do not know if that is a possibility.”

Lorenz doesn’t respond immediately. Slowly, Ferdinand lifts his cup. Sips. The tea is light and delicate. A nostalgic taste. 

Bergamot was his mother’s favourite tea. 

He leans forward. Sets the cup and saucer on the tabletop. Next to him, Lorenz moves to do the same. He extends an arm around Ferdinand’s shoulders. He takes Ferdinand’s weight as they settle back onto the chaise. Lets Ferdinand shift onto his right side. Curl in Lorenz’s lap. 

Lorenz rests his right arm over Ferdinand. Palm against the back of his skull. He pets his free hand’s fingers over the shell of Ferdinand’s ear. Tucking locks of hair back and soothing them out. 

Ferdinand is exhausted. 

“This isn’t good for you,” Lorenz says.

It is not harsh. It is not nagging. It simply is. 

“I know,” Ferdinand says because he does.

Lorenz breathes out. In. 

“I,” he starts, and his fingers do not still as he speaks, nor does his voice rise, “am grateful you let me listen when you and Dorothea were speaking.”

Ferdinand blinks. Shifts. He looks up at Lorenz.

There are no words to describe the kindness he sees there. 

“I would not mind,” Lorenz continues, steadier than before as Ferdinand looks at him, “if you would speak to me. Even a little bit. Even if the things you tell me are terrible. I… I would rather you tell me than holding everything inside and letting it possess you.” 

Ferdinand blinks. Swallows.

He shifts. Adjusts his arms so that his hands can curl in the fabric of Lorenz’s tunic. 

They never finished their conversation from the treaty feast. From the day before. 

_I want to tell you_

“Hubert –”

Ferdinand stops. Closes his mouth. He stares at his hands. The calluses from his axe. His blunt, rippled nails. His thumb and middle finger nails grow slightly unevenly. A consequence of how he summons Thoron. Healers have commented on that. Something to do with how the charge is damaging his nail beds. 

“I know he was a bad person,” he says to his hands, to Lorenz’s torso, “but we, we were young, I suppose. We were naïve. I don’t know if he was as depraved back then, and I don’t know if I was as naïve as he was when it came to love. I like to think that my mother loved me, and I did have people who cared for me sincerely in Aegir. I don’t think Hubert ever had that, except maybe from Edelgard. But that would make his ability to fulfil his duty more difficult, and I don’t think she would have done that to him.

“I do know that I was… I was very lonely. And I like to be liked. And he didn’t think I was unattractive. Maybe I liked that more than I realised, so we… He approached me, and I didn’t know if I liked him or not, but I was flattered because he did it properly—wrote me a poem about apple trees in the courtly style popular before the insurrection. I don’t know how he found out I liked the old style better. He sang it for me when I accepted his message, and he was, his voice was _awful_, but that made it charming. I thought: well, he put effort in; maybe he is not so abhorrent; maybe it would be alright to let him try after all. 

“And he was sweet. Hubert’s best qualities were what he never showed to anyone willingly. He had such an attention to detail, and he wanted me to like him, so he would try to please me. He wrote me more poems, and he remembered what food I liked, and he listened to me talk, and he didn’t – he never belittled me. I know I can be very silly, and he did get exasperated sometimes, but he respected me, and I…

“I did love him,” and his hands are blurred out; he isn’t crying, but he is very sad; “I loved those parts of him. But I think I understood better that we could not change our fates. I never returned his poems nor made him gifts, and Hubert was no fool. We shared company and bed, and we had secrets we shared, but Hubert would always follow Edelgard, and I could not. I never could. This was always the truth. 

“Even so, he tried to convince me, and I rejected him, and then he would not _give up_, and all those things that made him sweet became nightmares and he kept trying and trying and –

“I loved him when I killed him. I love him even now. I think that’s why I reacted so badly yesterday when you… You tried to tell me.”

“Yes,” Lorenz says, very softly; he presses his fingertips to the skin behind Ferdinand’s ear. “It is not a contradiction.” 

_No,_ Ferdinand agrees. _It is not._

Love is selfish. Ferdinand feared the war would take that from him, too. It never could. 

Love is all Ferdinand’s own, and he can give it freely without judgement. 

For he is always and will ever be sincere. 

It is quiet. Ferdinand listens to Lorenz breathe. In. Out. Even and steady to match his heartbeat. 

“Rest,” Lorenz murmurs, his thumb soothing the soft, sensitive hairs at the hairline beneath Ferdinand’s ear. “I will wake you if you have a message, or if Dimitri or Claude arrive.” 

“Stay,” Ferdinand says, allowing himself this one selfishness. “If you please.” 

A breath. Almost a laugh. 

Lorenz tightens his hold. 

He is warm. 

“Yes,” he says, very gently, “I am pleased.”


End file.
